


From Nothing

by KtrenalWinterheart



Series: Differently Rational [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Abuse, Adventure, Coming of Age, Freedom, Gen, Growing power, Korriban, Novelisation, Rated For Violence, Sith, Sith Academy, Sith Empire, Sith Training, Slavery, The Dark Side of the Force, Unreliable Narrator, Villain Protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 122,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtrenalWinterheart/pseuds/KtrenalWinterheart
Summary: Born into slavery on a world at the edge of the Sith Empire’s territory, Zavahier has never known any other life. But there is strength in passion: through hatred and rage, he breaks the chains of slavery and unleashes his connection to the Force. In doing so, he attracts the attention of the Sith, and must travel to the holy world of Korriban, where he will learn the ways of the dark side. But being strong in the Force alone isn’t enough; he must be cunning to survive in a culture that thrives on violence and betrayal, and there are many who believe a former slave can never become Sith. Zavahier must prove them wrong… or die in the attempt.





	1. Slavery

**Author's Note:**

> This fic began life in the spring of 2016, as a novelisation of my newest Sith Inquisitor character, Zavahier. It soon gained a life of its own, and has been a wonderful project to work on. But this isn't just a straight retelling of the game, but rather a greatly expanded story that explores the Sith Inquisitor's storyline, personality and powers in much greater detail.
> 
> "From Nothing" is Part One of the "Differently Rational" series, and covers the Sith Inquisitor's time on Korriban. It is complete, barring minor edits for style, grammar, and continuity. Its sequel, "Legacy", is also complete, and the third story in the series, "Taking Shape", has already been started.
> 
> New chapters posted every other Wednesday.

_**"Freedom means the opportunity to be what we never thought we would be."** _

From the light filtering in from the narrow window high above, it promised to be a warm and sunny day. That was supposed to be a good thing, but Zavahier didn’t feel it. The light felt distant and cold, streaming overhead and hitting the floor several metres beyond the edge of his cage. So close, yet still out of reach. And Zavahier sat alone in the shadows, his narrow shoulders hunched forward. He turned a small, jagged piece of metal over and over in his hands, a poor attempt to distract himself. Around him were a dozen crude drawings of a man being killed in a variety of violent and painful ways. Crushed under a falling rock. Dropped from a high cliff. Stabbed in the face with a lightsabre. Eaten alive by a flock of Caekarran gulls. Struck by a comet. Fed through one of his own machines. Disembowelled by Zavahier himself.

Perhaps at a first glance, Zavahier should be considered fortunate to have a pen all to himself. Not many slaves ever had that. He had more room to move than his fellows in the cages across the room. He had something vaguely resembling privacy.

He’d certainly considered himself lucky at first. Lucky to have space to himself. Space to move. To be able to sleep alone. To not be constantly bumping shoulders with the others. To not have to share every meal... and to not have to sometimes fight for his fair share of the food. When he spent every minute of every day with the same people, whether he wanted to or not, irritability and frustration was inevitable. He wasn’t strong enough to stop larger slaves taking his food, and when they all lived at the very bottom of the galaxy’s social hierarchy, sometimes the only way they could have any control over their lives – or vent their frustrations – was by bullying each other.

Zavahier could give as good as he got, of course, as long as he used his mind rather than brute force. A few choice words could send one young slave into conflict with another, giving Zavahier the chance to eat in peace while they fought.

But being away from all that had seemed… nice.

At first.

The reality of his situation was quite different.

It wasn’t fun. He wasn’t lucky.

Zavahier couldn’t see any of the others. He could barely hear them, and it was all just a jumble of words, a dozen quiet conversations in the dark. But he was beyond their reach. The ache of being alone was a physical sensation in his shoulders.

After being locked in this cage, completely alone, for days – or was it weeks? – Zavahier had learned there were worse things in life than sharing a pen with the other slaves and doing repetitive, menial work for his owner. He’d lived with them for most of his life. They were as close to family as it was possible for anyone to be, despite the fact that they didn’t always get along. And while there were times that he wanted them all to just go away… right now he missed them deeply. No matter how awful things were, there had always been something comforting in not being alone. There had been solidarity. A kind of closeness that wasn’t just physical. Other bodies huddling together not just for warmth at night, but offering comfort and reassurance just by their presence alone.

And he had discovered there were worse punishments for stepping out of line than a painful electric shock through his collar.

Like being completely ignored.

Every day, the other slaves had been taken out of their pens and led into the factories to work, and Zavahier had been left behind. Every day, when the others were given bread and bowls of broth, only dry crusts and enough water to keep him alive were placed within his reach – and always by his owner, not another slave who would actually talk to him. At first he’d tried to get his owner to respond to him, doing anything he could think of to provoke a response – even if that response was another shock – but his owner had been persistent in his determination to pretend he heard nothing Zavahier said.

As the days had worn on, it had gotten harder to find ways of provoking his owner into responding to him. Anger had motivated him for several days, but his isolation had eroded that, replacing that smouldering rage with fear and despair as the hopelessness of his situation pressed down on him. Zavahier was trapped, sealed into a cage from which he couldn’t escape. The floor was cold, hard metal. Metal bars surrounded him, containing him in a five metre box. An electrical current hummed through wires near the top of the pen. He’d gotten several shocks trying to climb out of the cage, before accepting that escape was futile.

Zavahier couldn’t find the will to move anymore. Pacing back and forth in the unusually large space no longer brought him any pleasure. Yelling insults and death threats at his owner had proved to be completely fruitless. He’d stopped drawing on the floor, just because of how utterly pointless it now seemed. Impossible dreams. And wishful thinking had never done him any good. So now he just fiddled with his improvised tool. He’d run his fingers over every centimetre of it until he knew every jagged edge. But it was _something_ to interact with. Better than nothing.

So what options were left to him?

None that he could think of. But it was hard to think straight. His stomach churned and growled with hunger.

He just wanted to be with his family. And to be doing _something_. Even working was better than this inactivity. If there was _any_ pride to be had in being a slave, it was in a job well done. The satisfaction of being useful. Of course, Zavahier hated that. He hated the idea that his only value was in how useful he was to his owner, and how many credits it would cost to replace him.

But what other choice was there?

There was nothing else in his life to be proud of.

Zavahier stared at the piece of metal in his hands, tracing his fingertips over the sharp edges. One of the bars of the cage was slightly warped at the bottom – not enough to allow him to escape, of course – and it didn’t properly connect with the floor. He had twisted the pointed tip until a little piece had come away. He’d cut his hand in the process, leaving droplets of blood on the floor. He had thought to use the piece of metal as a tool to force the lock on the gate. It hadn’t worked. That was when he’d started using it to draw those scenes depicting his owner’s death, until even that no longer kept him distracted from his present circumstances.

And then – finally – there was light. Rows of them across the ceiling flickered on, and Zavahier bowed his head, closing his eyes against the brightness. He only opened them again when he heard footsteps nearby, and raised his head just enough to see who it was.

His owner.

Denal Rawste.

Finally acknowledging his existence again.

Zavahier watched him warily, not moving from his position on the floor near the back of the pen, nor making the mistake of speaking without being spoken to. His desire to be let out of the cage, to have some kind of human interaction, was greater than his hatred of his owner. But he had to wait until Rawste spoke to him first.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait.

Rawste had to be about to say something.

Any moment now.

Come on.

Come on!

Get on with it!

Say something already!

Zavahier shifted position impatiently, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to resist moving or speaking. But it was hard. And Rawste seemed to realise this, chuckling at Zavahier’s attempt at restraint.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Rawste said.

“No, sir,” Zavahier said through gritted teeth. He hated this. Being forced to submit to this man, to speak with respect even though none had been earned. Rawste dominated him through fear and pain, and Zavahier _hated_ every moment of it.

He hated it!

He hated his whole life!

“I should leave you here another week,” Rawste said, as he pulled a small device from his pocket.

“Don’t…” Zavahier said in a thick voice, knowing what was about to happen.

It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t even _meant_ to break that machine. He didn’t know how it had happened. Rawste had berated him for not working hard enough – he’d been watching the birds outside the window, fascinated by their movements and _longing_ for the freedom they possessed – and the machine he’d been using had just sort of… sparked and died.

And how could a random electrical fault be _Zavahier_ _’s_ doing?

Punishing him for that just wasn’t _fair_.

“If I thought _asking_ you to behave would work…” Rawste said, before pressing the button on the remote. “But no, you have to cause trouble.”

The collar around Zavahier’s neck responded, delivering a quick, sharp electric shock to his body. He winced, and he hugged himself more tightly, groaning quietly. His reaction was a little exaggerated compared to the intensity of the shock he’d been given. It had been one of the lower settings, far more easily endured than Zavahier was letting on. But over the years he’d learned that if he pretended to have a low pain tolerance, he received weaker shocks. What Rawste really wanted was to see and hear him suffering, so that was what Zavahier gave him.

But maybe that strategy had backfired, given Rawste had locked him in here and ignored him for days. Or had it been weeks? On some level, it seemed Zavahier’s owner had realised that electric shocks weren’t enough to completely subdue him, despite the deliberately exaggerated responses. Or maybe _because_ of the exaggerated responses.

So Zavahier had engineered his own suffering, then?

No. He wouldn’t accept that. Rawste was a harsh and cruel master. Zavahier’s attempt to manipulate him had been necessary for survival. The higher shock collar settings could kill. Other slaves – some of them Zavahier’s friends – had died that way.

But right now, his survival required that he be submissive. That he show his owner the respect Rawste believed he was due. That was the only way he was going to get out of this cage and be allowed to rejoin the others.

So Zavahier bowed his head just enough to show deference, but kept his eyes on Rawste, meeting his owner’s gaze in the hopes of convincing him that he was being truthful. And then he offered an apology for his behaviour, trying to sound as sincere as he could. “I’m sorry, sir. I… I’m sorry. Please… I just want to work. I won’t break anything else, I promise…”

The silence that followed felt as if it dragged out for hours. Their eyes were locked onto each other, as Zavahier willed Rawste to believe him, while Rawste sought for any dishonesty.

And then, finally, Rawste nodded, and stepped forward, unlocking and opening the gate. “Alright, slave. But step one _toe_ out of line, and you’ll regret it. Today is very important. Don’t mess up.”

“Yes, sir,” Zavahier said as he climbed to his feet. He hid his little piece of metal in his pocket, and then moved forward slowly, cautiously stepping through the open gate and into the empty space beyond. He half expected Rawste to slam it closed in his face before he got out of the pen, but it didn’t happen. “Excuse me, sir, but… what is happening today?”

“The most important day of your life,” Rawste said, giving Zavahier a quick shove in the direction of the other slaves, who were being let out of the other pens by members of Rawste’s staff.

Zavahier took the hint and hurried to join his fellows. One of them, a green-skinned Twi’lek called Icallijo, reached out and squeezed his shoulder momentarily, offering both a welcome and reassurance with that simple gesture.

“You alright, Zava?” Icallijo asked quietly. “I’m surprised you can even walk…”

“I’ve been through worse,” Zavahier lied, avoiding Icallijo’s gaze. There were some things he wouldn’t admit even to those closest to him. Like just how horrible it had been to be alone. And how weak he really felt.

But there was no time for any more conversation. The whole group of slaves, more than forty in total – and still only a fraction of Rawste’s entire workforce – were herded away from the pens and into the next room by Rawste’s men.

Here, they were ordered to strip off their clothes, and Zavahier did so, but kept his metal fragment in his hand. It had got him through the last few days, and he wasn’t going to give it up. It was _his_ now. And since there were very few reasons why they would all be compelled to strip naked – the most obvious being that they were going to be sold – Zavahier was all the more determined to hold on to his one and only possession. The prospect of change, of being sold to a new owner who might be _worse_ than Rawste, was not one to be taken lightly.

Once all the slaves had shed their clothes, and stood huddled together, naked aside from their collars, and males and females mixed together without any thought for their modesty, Rawste’s men turned on the hoses, blasting them with cold water to dislodge as much dirt as possible. And in a rare display of generosity, the slaves were given soap to clean themselves with too.

Bathing was a luxury not often afforded to slaves, except in situations where their owners didn’t want to smell them. Under normal circumstances, Zavahier spent most of his time in Rawste’s factories, making the tools and equipment Rawste’s company supplied to the Sith Empire. Cleanliness was low on the list of priorities.

Being clean now was… yes, it was nice. Even if being stripped and soaked with cold water was an unpleasant and humiliating experience. Not a _new_ one though. It was all part of life as someone else’s property. Zavahier had to bite his lip to hold himself back from commenting how _wonderful_ it was to be in control of his life, and how _nice_ it was to have ownership of his own body.

Instead he found something marginally more productive to say.

“I guess he thinks we’ll sell for more if we’re clean,” Zavahier remarked quietly, his teeth chattering with the cold. A clean set of grey clothes were thrust towards him, and he quickly put them on, though his body was still wet. Towels were another luxury far too important to waste on slaves, apparently. His piece of metal was once again hidden in his pocket.

“Oh, no. That’s not what’s happening,” Icallijo explained. He too was shivering as he pulled on the clean clothes. “Mister Rawste is trying to secure a new contract, producing some kind of new weapon for this big, important Sith Lord. Lots of work for us all, I hear.”

“There’s a _Sith_ coming?” Zavahier asked, more than a little alarmed. The Sith had a terrifying reputation – even though Zavahier didn’t really believe the stories of their magical powers – and now he thought he knew why Rawste had released him from solitary confinement with so little argument. If Zavahier said the wrong thing to a Sith, the punishment wouldn’t be an electric shock and separation from the other slaves. It would be a slow and painful death. The tales of Sith cruelty probably _weren_ _’t_ exaggerations.

And yet, the Sith was looking to Rawste to make him a new weapon? Didn’t that strike anybody else as being just a little odd?

“I don’t think the Sith himself is coming. Just some people that work for him, I think,” Calopi said. “Anzara and Lissy have been helping with the cooking. More food than any of us have seen in years.”

There was some bitterness in her voice, a feeling that was very, _very_ shared. Zavahier had barely eaten anything in the last few days. Or weeks. However long it had been. He should probably ask Icallijo exactly how long it had been, but… he wasn’t sure it really mattered. It wouldn’t change anything. And a part of him didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t like the thought of the other slaves knowing just how awful it had been. How much it had bothered him.

“Maybe we’ll get the leftovers?” Sarikoy said wistfully.

“I doubt it,” Zavahier replied, narrowing his eyes at Sarikoy. He tried to rub his neck, but his hand bumped against his collar, so he quickly lowered it again and shoved his hand in his pocket instead. What was the point in even _hoping_ for such a thing? It was never going to happen. Rawste never chose to be kind when he had the option of doing something that would further crush his slaves’ spirits.

“And Rawste wants to show off those beasts he’s been collecting,” added Trejar, quickly changing the subject before anybody could start an argument. If there was going to be any conflict amongst the slaves, it was nearly always about food. “He brought in this big one last week, called a Nexu. It’s horrible, all spikes and teeth and claws.”

“And it wants to eat us all,” Brahav said. Those words were perhaps just a little melodramatic.

Or perhaps not. Would Rawste _really_ be above feeding his slaves to his collection of vicious pets?

Well, only insofar as slaves cost money to replace…

“Sounds like I might have been better off staying where I was…” Zavahier said.

“Don’t say that,” Icallijo said firmly, squeezing his shoulder again. “You belong with us, and we’re safer together.”

But Zavahier wasn’t convinced. While he did feel a little safer to be back amongst his fellows, and he had genuinely missed their company – yes, even Sarikoy with his constant optimism – he knew that he would never be just another face in the crowd. He’d drawn his owner’s ire far too often, so he knew Rawste would always be watching him more closely than any of the others. There was something a little enjoyable about that, just because it proved that Rawste had never succeeded in breaking his will. It allowed Zavahier to hold on to a little spark of individuality, even if the law didn’t recognise him as a person at all.

And it helped to protect the others. When Rawste’s anger was focused exclusively on Zavahier, it meant that the other slaves received less of his cruelty. Sometimes it didn’t really feel like it was worth it. Brahav and Trejar had a habit of stealing his food and trying to push him around, and Sarikoy – whose homeworld had been conquered by the Empire only a few years ago – maintained a degree of hope for the future that the slaves with more distant memories of freedom simply couldn’t understand. Zavahier didn’t even know what freedom felt like, and Sarikoy’s stories of home and family and paid work and having his own possessions were a far too uncomfortable reminder of all the things Zavahier had never had.

Yet they were all family. The only one he had ever known. And… he was stronger than they were. He could endure things they couldn’t. Rawste couldn’t crush his spirit, nor break his will.

So if making Rawste angry with him helped to spare the other slaves some pain, then how could Zavahier do anything else?

~*~*~*~

It took most of the day for Rawste’s meeting to be fully set up. First the slaves had to clean and tidy the conference room, and then they had been required to bring in tables and chairs, hang red and black banners bearing the Sith Empire’s six-pronged crest from the walls, set up a raised platform and projector at one end, and dozens of other tasks to make sure everything was perfect for the meeting. Another group of slaves were hard at work in the kitchens, preparing enough food for fifty guests. A third group were cleaning every centimetre of the factories. And a _fourth_ group were out in the grounds of Rawste’s large estate, tidying the gardens and cleaning the beast pens. It would be part demonstration of the factories’ capabilities, part special tour of Rawste’s menagerie of beasts, before finishing the whole thing off with an elaborate dinner party.

Not even the _slightest_ hint of over-compensation going on there.

Definitely not.

But Rawste needed to _impress_ the Sith, didn’t he? Or the men working for the Sith. Whoever was coming to meet with him. He would have his work cut out for him: he wasn’t truly Imperial, and while the things he produced were useful to the Empire, Rawste himself had never gained as much respect or prestige as he wanted. He was a businessman who had defected from the Republic in the middle of the last war, looking for greater profit in working for the Empire. He had been distrusted for years, and only grudgingly tolerated since then. They looked down on him. Zavahier had seen it on several occasions, when an Imperial officer came to the factory. They always saw Rawste as corrupt and greedy… but useful.

So if he wanted this contract for the Sith’s weapon project, Rawste needed to truly impress them.

As Zavahier set out cutlery and wine glasses, the idea of sabotaging the party in some manner ran through his mind. More than once. He could ruin Rawste’s chances of getting the contract. He probably wouldn’t even need to do very much. Spill a few drinks on someone important looking. Get several meals mixed up. Set the banners on fire. Play the Galactic Republic’s anthem over the announcement system. Sneak into the factories and see if he could coax a few machines into blowing up. Demolish the entire building somehow.

Or any number of other things. The possibilities were endless.

Oh, Zavahier would pay for it dearly. He knew that.

But that didn’t make it any less tempting.

It would be a nice bit of revenge for the thoroughly unjustified punishment he’d received for being nearby when one of the machines stopped working.

And if Rawste didn’t get the contract, then Zavahier would get the blame regardless. Somehow Rawste would _find_ a way of making it all his fault.

So if he was going to be punished for it anyway, why shouldn’t he actually do it?

There must have been something in the look on his face as he placed glass after glass on the tables, setting them down with more force than was necessary, because Icallijo walked over and began to help, carefully moving each of the glasses Zavahier placed to line them up more neatly.

“Don’t do it,” Icallijo said in a soft voice, being careful to make sure he wasn’t overheard by Rawste or any of his employees.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Not yet, but you were thinking about it. I _know_ you Zava,” Icallijo said.

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” Zavahier stopped working so he could turn to face Icallijo, searching his face for an answer that Zavahier couldn’t find within himself.

Icallijo sighed. “You’ll just make things worse. Keep your head down, stay quiet, and Mister Rawste won’t have reason to punish you.”

“You know what will happen if he wins this contract, don’t you? _We_ do all the work, and _he_ sits around collecting all the credits,” Zavahier said, unable to keep that hard, resentful edge from creeping into his voice. And it was said loudly enough that two nearby slaves looked in his direction.

“Shhh!” Icallijo urged him. “I know it’s not fair, but there’s nothing you can do about it. If you ruin this for Mister Rawste, he’ll just hurt you again.”

“Like anything will stop him doing that,” Zavahier grumbled. It seemed like even when he did everything right, Rawste was never happy. He was punished for things beyond his control, that he couldn’t possibly have been responsible for. He received a painful shock just for speaking out of turn. The next glass he slammed down on the table shattered from the force of the impact, as though destroyed by the power of Zavahier’s frustration alone.

“Just _try_. Please. For me?” Icallijo asked, removing the broken pieces and passing them over to Brahav to dispose of. “I hate seeing him hurt you.”

Zavahier paused in his task again, and looked in Icallijo’s direction. The Twi’lek was thirty years older than him, his round face lined and weathered, and his face and _lekku_ marked with the tattoos of slavery. Icallijo had been sold from owner to owner for most of his life, receiving a new mark each time, completely covering his natural dark green stripes. The final tattoo – Rawste’s company logo on his left wrist – had been added when Rawste purchased him some fifteen years previously.

Icallijo had replaced Karima, and perhaps rather fittingly, he had taken over responsibility for Karima’s young child as well as her share of the factory labour. He had always urged that child to keep his head down, to obey, to submit. All the things a good slave ought to do. Icallijo had the experience to know how to survive owners like Rawste.

These days, it was hard to listen. Zavahier wasn’t a small, frightened child anymore.

He was a slightly larger, but still frightened adult. He was twenty-two. Old enough to know what his life was. What his future held.

So how could he make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep?

Instead of promising Icallijo that he would try to behave, Zavahier went back to setting out the wine glasses. He did at least make more of an effort to set them out neatly, and without breaking them. He didn’t think it would actually do any good. If anything went wrong tonight, then he was going to get the blame for it no matter what. That was the only way to describe his life: a constant string of disasters. The moment he thought something good might happen, he’d say or do the wrong thing, and Rawste would shock him.

And even when he did everything right, it felt rather meaningless. There was no reward for good work.

~*~*~*~

The preparations for dinner continued while Rawste guided his guests through his estate, and it was early evening when he finally brought them into the conference room for dinner. There were six higher ranking officers, each impeccably tidy with close-cropped hair and sharp grey uniforms, and they were escorted by another eight soldiers in dark grey armour, their faces obscured by their helmets. Fifteen people in total, including Rawste, and the slaves had spent the whole day preparing for _fifty_.

There was that over-compensation again.

Zavahier thought he would be sent away, back behind the scenes where he wouldn’t be in direct contact with any of the people Rawste was trying to impress. But nevertheless, he silently begged Rawste to not notice him; he wanted to watch the officers and find out more about the weapon project. Fortunately, Rawste was too busy ingratiating himself to pay much attention to exactly _which_ slaves were present, so Zavahier lurked at the edge of the hall, knowing he wasn’t really supposed to be there. He watched from a distance as his owner offered fawning compliments to his guests, and offered worship to the glory of the Sith Empire.

It was pathetic, really.

Rawste and the six officers made their way over to the dinner table and sat down to talk business, while the soldiers took up guarding positions around the edge of the hall. With a click of his fingers, Rawste ordered his slaves to start pouring wine; Zavahier volunteered himself for this task, purely because he wanted to listen in on the conversation. Exactly what kind of weapon was this contract for?

Something mass produced, by the sounds of it. Not a personal weapon for the Sith himself, but rather something for his men to use. The specific details were beyond Zavahier. Knowing how individual pieces were put together wasn’t enough to give him understanding of the underlying principles. He wasn’t a designer. Just manual labour.

Didn’t stop him being curious, though.

There was something about being denied knowledge that made him want it all the more.

Zavahier’s presence was ignored, of course. That was technically the mark of a good slave, to be doing his job without drawing any attention. Exactly what Icallijo wanted him to do.

Yet when he poured wine for the youngest of the Imperial officers, a tall man with light brown hair, he received an unexpected, “Thank you.” After the initial surprise – had _anyone_ ever thanked him before? – Zavahier responded with the briefest of smiles, before moving on to the next officer’s wine glass.

Unfortunately, those two simple words had drawn Rawste’s attention, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Zavahier. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m helping your guests get drunk, obviously.” That _really_ wasn’t the right thing to say.

Rawste gave him a small shock for this purposefully literal response. Zavahier’s muscles tensed when the jolt of electricity entered his body, and his hand jerked, spilling wine down the oldest officer’s shirt. Rawste shot him a venomous glare, probably assuming Zavahier had done it on purpose.

Well, maybe he _could_ have tried harder not to spill the wine.

“I’m very sorry about this. I’ll pay for the cleaning, of course,” Rawste said, his apology revoltingly ingratiating. Then, with another sharp look in Zavahier’s direction, he added, “And I’ll see to it that slave is punished. He isn’t even supposed to be here. You stop watching him for a few seconds, and he finds a way of causing trouble.”

Rawste clearly expected the officers to empathise with the difficulties in keeping slaves in line. Two of them nodded in understanding, but the youngest one just looked troubled, his eyebrows furrowing as he studied Zavahier and the other nearby slaves properly.

“I find it helps if you don’t shock them unnecessarily,” the youngest officer said mildly.

“You’ll have to forgive Lieutenant Hislan. He’s never had to put down a slave rebellion,” the oldest officer said.

“You give them a centimetre, and they take a kilometre,” one of the others said knowingly, to a general murmuring of agreement.

“Go into the kitchens and report to—“ Rawste began, and then broke off, clearly questioning the wisdom of having Zavahier anywhere near the food preparation. It was almost like he thought Zavahier might attempt to poison them all. “Just go back to your cage and stay there until I’m ready to deal with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Zavahier said dully. He dipped his head obediently, making the effort to appear appropriately cowed by the shock and the threat of further punishment. He passed the bottle of wine to the next slave, and made his way out of the conference room.

But he had no intention of meekly returning to his cage.

Rawste and the Imperial officers had given him an idea.

So instead of going where he’d been ordered, Zavahier took advantage of the fact that everybody was far too busy to even question it when he walked down the corridor, right past the slave pens, through another door, down another corridor, and then…

Outside!

Rawste’s estate was a large one, covering a huge amount of land on the outskirts of Caekarro’s capital city. And although Zavahier had done his share of the upkeep of the gardens, he’d never been outside this late in the day before. The sun was a huge red disk on the horizon, and a chorus of insects chirped from the flower beds. The sprinklers were active, spraying the lawn – a necessity with Caekarro’s climate – and Zavahier was liberally sprayed with water as he made his way towards the rows of cages where Rawste’s beasts were kept.

Rawste just _loved_ locking things up, didn’t he?

He would put the stars themselves in bottles if he could.

And yet… the animals lived better lives than Rawste’s slaves did. Their cages were larger, containing suitable dens for them to sleep in, and natural looking features that tried to imitate the beasts’ original habitats. They ate better than the slaves did, too. Each enclosure contained an animal with sleek, glossy fur. Or scales. Or feathers. There were no visible ribcages or bony hips. They were worth a lot more than any single slave.

And that was why Zavahier had chosen to make _this_ his one-man slave rebellion.

He went to the nearest cage and spent a few moments studying the locking mechanism. It consisted of a control panel that connected to thick bolts that held the gate closed, and Zavahier knew it was a simpler device than the locks on the slave pens. He had _made_ things like this in his owner’s factories. Beasts didn’t have hands, nor the intelligence to unlock a gate. It was designed to withstand the brute strength of an animal ramming it, not careful manipulation with…

A tool.

That was what he needed.

Zavahier took the piece of metal from his pocket, _very_ glad that he’d managed to hold onto it now, and inserted the sharpest point into the control panel on the cage’s locking mechanism. With a little force, he pried it open. Inside was a complicated nest of interconnected wires. He traced his finger over each one. Winced when one gave him a little static shock.

He’d had worse.

Now then…

Which one?

 _That_ one.

Zavahier grabbed the wire and pulled it loose. With a satisfyingly loud click, the bolts retracted, and the gate swung open.

“Go on! Be free!” he ordered the two animals inside. They were large, brightly coloured flightless birds, and they regarded him passively for almost a minute. Then one of them gave a loud squawk and waddled out of the cage. It was followed by its mate, and together they ambled towards the lawn, bobbing their heads curiously at the droplets of water spraying from the sprinklers.

Pleased with the results, Zavahier moved onto the next cage. This time, he deactivated the lock more quickly, as he now had a better idea of what he was doing. A pair of massive, hairy beasts were set loose. From the next cage, he released a flock of large birds with cruelly hooked beaks. Then a large reptile with a feathered crest. A trio of thick-furred canine creatures. A whole herd of animals with long necks and prehensile noses, which made happy honking noises as they ran out onto the grass and began to graze.

Then there was a large feline with a wide mouth full of teeth and quills on its back. It initially looked as though it would attack Zavahier, and they stared into each other’s eyes for several long moments, before the beast slinked away, disappearing into the shadows.

Maybe it appreciated having its freedom?

Zavahier could relate to that.

As he was working on the tenth cage’s lock, Zavahier received another electric shock. This one wasn’t from the control panel, but from the collar around his neck. Which meant only one thing: his actions had been discovered. Not surprising given the number of animals milling around Rawste’s once flawlessly maintained lawn.

The shock lasted only a second, and when Zavahier’s muscles loosened, he turned around to face whoever had activated his collar.

It was Drassen, Rawste’s beastmaster, and he held a remote in his hand. “What are you doing, slave?”

“What does it look like?” Zavahier replied. He saw Drassen’s thumb moving towards the button again. And he reacted, dropping his makeshift tool and launching himself forward at the man. Surprise was on his side, and he managed to pull the shock collar remote out of Drassen’s hand.

Zavahier’s advantage lasted only a fraction of a second. Drassen recovered from the surprise attack quickly, and threw a punch that sent Zavahier slamming onto the ground. He dropped the remote, and it rolled away. Rubbing his jaw, Zavahier tried to get up, only to be knocked down again by a savage kick in the stomach. Drassen kicked him twice more for good measure, leaving him winded. This time he stayed down.

Drassen pulled out his holocommunicator and began a call, which was answered a few seconds later.  “Sir, I caught one of the slaves setting the beasts loose.”

“Let me guess which one…” the hologram of Rawste said. “Kill him.”

“Yes, sir,” Drassen replied. “I’ll need some slaves to help me round up the animals, too.”

Still struggling to draw breath, Zavahier rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up. He wasn’t going to lie there on the floor while Drassen murdered him.

Was it actually murder if the victim was a slave?

Probably not. A slave wasn’t even considered a person.

And if Zavahier wasn’t a person… then he wasn’t going to act like one. He moved on all fours, scrabbling towards the dropped shock collar remote. He didn’t want it to be used against him. As he reached for it, it moved on its own, drawn into his waiting hand. Zavahier didn’t wonder at how this had happened; he just realised that as a cylinder of metal, it was a much better weapon than his fists. By the time Drassen was done with his holocall, Zavahier was on his feet. And armed.

“Give me that,” Drassen ordered sharply, holding out his hand for Zavahier to give him the remote. As if he expected obedience. But that was half of battle when it came to dealing with slaves. It wasn’t just about the physical domination, but the mental one as well.

And _that_ was what Zavahier was breaking free of. They could hurt him. They could kill him. But he would _never_ submit again!

Never!

Drassen lunged at him, and Zavahier leaped backwards. The beastmaster was both taller and heavier than him. And had eaten recently. And was just generally in better condition. But Zavahier found the strength to move quickly. He had to. If Drassen hit him again, the fight would be lost, and he would die.

He _had_ to win.

Zavahier kept backing away, maintaining the distance between him and Drassen, and then darted to the side as he felt the bars of a cage at his back. Drassen growled with frustration, and drew his blaster. He raised the weapon, aiming at Zavahier.

“That’s _cheating_ ,” Zavahier snarled.

He was fed up of others having all the power! Physical size and strength. The shock collars. The keys to the cages. Access to food and water. And now blasters as well?

Enough!

He’d had _enough_!

Unexpectedly – and inexplicably - the blaster was torn from Drassen’s hand by some invisible force. It landed several metres away, and Drassen stared at it, his mouth open in surprise.

Zavahier took his chance. He launched at Drassen, hitting him in the face with the shock remote in his hand. The beastmaster staggered, and Zavahier kicked him in the kneecap as hard as he could. Now the man went down, and without hesitation, Zavahier pounced on him, straddling Drassen’s chest and repeatedly smashing the remote into his head. Each blow was accompanied by an incoherent snarl of rage. He couldn’t form any words to express himself. Words didn’t even _exist_ for what Zavahier felt. How could they? What words could _ever_ describe a lifetime of frustration and fear and fury?

Drassen cried out a few times. And he clawed at Zavahier, pawing and scratching at his clothes, and trying to grab his arm.

And then he stopped.

And it didn’t even matter.

Zavahier just kept hitting him. Again and again and again. Even his grunts and snarls faded away into a silent rage as he battered Drassen’s head and face with his improvised weapon.

What _did_ stop Zavahier was the accidental activation of his own shock collar, just through the repeated blows to the remote. The searing pain of electricity tore through his tiring body. All his muscles tensed, and he couldn’t stop himself falling sideways, jerking and twitching. He bit his tongue. Tasted blood.           

He wanted to keep fighting, but he couldn’t make his body do what he wanted it to. Shocks were like that. They felt like they lasted for hours. But then it was over, only a few seconds later. The remote was badly damaged, and the last of its power was spent.

Zavahier groaned. And then remembered he was still in danger. Expecting more pain, he tried to leap to his feet, but it was more of a clumsy lurch, and he fell onto something large.

It was Drassen. And he was very dead. His face was a pulverised mess of blood, bruises and broken teeth, barely even recognisable. Zavahier pushed himself away from the body of Rawste’s beastmaster, and sat down heavily a few metres away, staring at the bloody mess. The sound of his own pounding heartbeat overwhelmed everything else.

He couldn’t pull his eyes away from it.

Had _he_ done that?

He shuffled even further back, and then squeezed his eyes closed to try and rid himself of the image of Drassen’s beaten corpse. He shivered involuntarily, and shook his head.

No.

No, no, no.

Killing someone – even a man as loathsome as Drassen – was wrong. Zavahier _couldn_ _’t_ have done something like that. He wouldn’t dare. Dreaming about it, drawing it on the floor, that wasn’t the same as _really_ doing it.

And yet… there was Drassen, still there when Zavahier opened his eyes again. Very, very dead. And Zavahier was covered in his blood. The shock collar remote was still in his hand. He dropped it, and it rolled away.

Now what?


	2. The Price Of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anything worth having comes with a price...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is a brief, non-detailed mention of rape in this chapter.

Zavahier was going to die.

As soon as Rawste found him, he was going to be killed.

The obvious solution – escape – wasn’t much better. Veah was a big city, but with his shock collar he would be instantly recognisable as a slave wherever he went, and the tattoo on his wrist would tell everyone who he belonged to. They would know he was an escaped slave, and would either return him to Rawste or just kill him on sight. Probably the former. Nobody would want to pay Rawste compensation for a dead slave.

But the sun was setting, and it would soon be dark. That would give him a chance of moving through Caekarro’s capital city without being seen. The question was: where could he go?

He could stow away on a ship leaving the system, perhaps, assuming he could find his way to a spaceport. A challenging prospect, given that he had never left Rawste’s estate even once in his life. This place was all he knew.

And no matter where he went within the Empire, he would still be a slave. If he was caught, he would be killed.

Wasn’t slavery illegal in the Galactic Republic?

Rawste had said that once. He’d always had to _pay_ his workers before he’d defected and set up his business on Caekarro. So if Zavahier could just get out of Imperial space and cross the border… and find somebody official, somebody who wouldn’t break the law and enslave him again. Someone who would remove his collar and set him free.

Zavahier held that idea in his mind for a moment, and then discarded it as ridiculously unrealistic. Even if not for the vast distances involved – making such a long journey without being noticed was laughable in itself – the Republic wasn’t all that great anyway. It was a bloated and corrupt organisation, ruled by… well, people like Rawste, who thought great wealth made them special. And although Zavahier had never been taught much about Caekarro, he knew one thing, stories shared in whispers between Caekarran slaves: the Republic had wiped out this planet’s population once in the past, bombarding it from orbit. Nobody that Zavahier had ever spoken to knew _why_ , only that it had happened, and the story had been passed down through the generations.

And that didn’t make the Republic sound like an organisation that could be trusted to be reasonable. Zavahier couldn’t expect anybody there to care about an escaped slave. He couldn’t count on anyone to help him. Nobody _ever_ helped someone else out of the goodness of their hearts.

No, his best chance for survival was to…

Um…

Well…

Come on, there had to be _something_ he could do!

Find somewhere in Veah to hide. An abandoned building. Down in the sewers. Where he would risk being caught whenever he ventured out to find food.

Flee the city and head out into the wilderness. Where he would be free to starve to death. Or be eaten by monsters.

And _that_ was the cage that was slavery. Zavahier was trapped not just by the collar, but by the fact that he just didn’t know how to evade the consequences of his rebellion. He had acted on instinct, and killed somebody, and now he knew retribution was coming. But he didn’t want to face the punishment that he knew awaited him once his actions were discovered.

Well, he had to try to escape, no matter how impossible it seemed. Rawste would _definitely_ kill him. Everybody else in the galaxy would only _probably_ kill him.

Zavahier got to his feet, and turned to walk away from Drassen’s body. Then he turned back, self-preservation overwhelming the nausea that surged within him at the sight of the dead man. He crouched to rummage through Drassen’s pockets. He stole several access cards, a few credit chips, and after another moment of consideration, he retrieved the dropped blaster pistol as well. He spent a few moments searching for the piece of metal from his cage. He didn’t want to leave without it; he’d gotten rather attached to it, and it had proved useful. The more tools in his possession, the more options he had. The more problems he could solve.

But the light was fading and he couldn’t find it. And there was no time to search for it in the darkness.

Then, struck by a thought, Zavahier considered the blaster he’d picked up. What exactly had happened? Drassen hadn’t _dropped_ it. It had been pulled out of the man’s hand and _thrown_.

He sought for an explanation. None sprang to mind.

Did it matter?

Not right now.

Zavahier tucked the weapon into the waist band of his trousers, and went to the remaining animal cages, using Drassen’s access card to open all the gates. The more animals were roaming the estate, the longer Rawste would be distracted by them. That would give Zavahier more time to put as much distance between him and his owner as possible.

Once all the animals were released, Zavahier began looking for a way off of Rawste’s estate. Going over the wall was the most obvious route, but he quickly discovered that it was a lot harder than it looked. There weren’t many handholds, and he only climbed up a few metres before finding that there was nothing to hold on to. The top of the wall was still a metre above him. Zavahier launched himself upwards, just about managing to grab the top of the wall with his fingers. He clung to the wall, trying to find something to put his feet on. Just the tiniest foothold was all he needed. A little cleft. A small bump. Anything.

Unable to hold his own weight up by his fingers alone, Zavahier let himself drop back down to the ground, landing roughly on his rear.

He sat for a moment, looking up at the wall.

Alright, out by the main entrance it was, then.

Zavahier got to his feet and began making his way towards the gates at the front of Rawste’s property, circling around the various animals meandering across the lawn. He almost made it, too.

But then the floodlights came on, bathing the whole estate in bright yellow light.

“Stop right there, slave!” Rawste shouted from across the lawn.

Zavahier stopped. It was an instinctive response to the bellowed command, and it utterly disgusted him. He looked over his shoulder. His owner had left the conference room and was now striding towards him, followed by Kamkol, one of his employees. Other slaves were moving to start rounding up the animals Zavahier had freed, with some help from the Imperial soldiers. The oldest of the officers was following a short distance behind Rawste.

Lacking any other options, Zavahier bolted, making a frantic dash towards the gates. He would climb them if he had to. Anything to get away from Rawste.

His shock collar activated, and his momentum carried him onwards even when his body refused to keep running. He crashed forward, landing face down in the grass. For a few seconds, all he could do was lie there, his muscles twitching spasmodically. But the moment he could move again, he struggled back to his feet.

Only to be shocked again.

Now Rawste stood over him, a shock collar remote in his hand.

Zavahier tried to get up again, and received another shock.

“Damn you,” he swore.

Another shock.

“Damned cowardly son of a Hutt!”

Yet another shock.

This time, Zavahier fought through it. The pain gave him strength, allowing him to stay on his feet. Years of pretending to have a lower pain tolerance than he really had given him an advantage now. Rawste looked _surprised_ that Zavahier wasn’t so easily dominated.

“Not enough?” Rawste asked him, a malicious smile spreading across his face. He looked over his shoulder at his assistant. “Kamkol, would you fetch the electro-whip?”

Kamkol nodded, and hurried off.

Zavahier shivered at the thought of the pain Rawste promised to inflict upon him, something even worse than the shock collar.

No!

He wouldn’t wait quietly for that. Not again. He still carried the scars from the last time Rawste had used such a weapon on him. He would _die_ before he let his owner do that to him again. Zavahier’s gaze focused on Rawste, and the man became the only thing in the universe. The only thing that mattered. The air around Zavahier crackled and sparked with bright light.

Rawste seemed to sense danger in the way Zavahier stared at him, and rather than wait for Kamkol to arrive with the electro-whip, he pushed the button on the shock collar remote again.

It was no longer enough to subdue Zavahier. Not when he knew that worse was coming. He threw himself forward, lunging at Rawste, but not really sure what he intended to do once he got there. He just knew he had to do _something_ before Kamkol came back.

A bolt of electricity erupted from Zavahier’s fingers, striking Rawste with enough force to throw the man backwards and surrounding them both in dazzling purple light. Rawste landed on his back, and Zavahier pounced on top of him, straddling Rawste’s chest, just as he’d done to Drassen. But he didn’t punch or hit. He couldn’t. Raw power flowed through him, born of rage and primal terror, wreathing them both in electricity. Zavahier couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t control what was happening. The power was there, and he used it, drawing on instincts he’d never known he possessed.

And he wanted Rawste to _suffer_.

He felt hands on his shoulders, and two of the soldiers dragged him backwards, away from his owner. Zavahier struggled, trying to pull free. He wasn’t done with Rawste yet! But the two men held him firmly, even as stray sparks of electricity struck their armour.

“Let me go!”

Rawste began climbing to his feet, looking rather shaken, and the look he gave Zavahier was of utmost fear and loathing, his lips curled into a snarl. Kamkol came running across the lawn, and Rawste snatched the electro-whip from him. He activated it, and gave it an experimental crack.

“No! No, no, no!” Zavahier shouted, trying to launch himself at Rawste again.

Another surge of power. More bolts of electricity. A crack of thunder. The electro-whip was blasted out of Rawste’s hand.

The nearest animals panicked, beginning a stampede across the lawn. They charged towards the slaves trying to contain them. The screams of terror from the slaves, the sickening crunch of broken bones as someone was trampled by a great hooved beast, and the barked orders from one of the Imperial officers only made matters worse. Bombarded with the emotions of the people and beasts around him, Zavahier’s wild surges of electricity intensified, no longer targeting only Rawste. Random bolts struck the ground, panicked slaves, and stampeding beasts. Anything within range. He couldn’t control it. The power was just _there_ , a part of him that had broken free of restraint.

But such an outpouring of power couldn’t last. The last few bolts of electricity flickered and dissipated only a few seconds later. Zavahier stopped struggling against the soldiers holding him, and took several ragged breaths, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. Rawste was groaning, slowly climbing back to his feet again. The soldiers were shooting the stampeding animals. The slaves were cowering behind them. Six of them – including Calopi and Brahav – were lying dead on the grass, bones broken and skulls crushed by heavy hooves.

Sarikoy was also dead, but covered in burns rather than trampled.

Killed by a bolt of lightning?

Rage gave way to distress. Exhausted, overwhelmed by emotions, and completely unable to process the extent of the mayhem he’d created, Zavahier’s eyes filled with tears, obscuring his vision. He fought against the desire to cry. Found it impossible to resist, and a miserable sob escaped him. He hadn’t wanted any of this to happen. He’d just wanted… wanted…

Wanted to not be a slave anymore. To have some choice about his own life. To not be punished for every minor infraction.

He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, to curl up in a tiny ball, but the two soldiers still held him.

“Let him go,” a quiet voice said from somewhere off to one side.

The soldiers did so, and the moment he was no longer restrained, Zavahier sank to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. Unable to keep looking at the carnage around him, he buried his face in his knees.

Somebody crouched down next to him, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Zavahier didn’t look up.

“It’s alright. You’re safe,” that same quiet voice said. “You’re Force-sensitive?”

Zavahier shook his head. “No.”

The answer was automatic. Almost as soon as he’d denied it, just because of how stupid the question was, he realised that it was the only explanation of what had happened that made any kind of sense. Insofar as the Force was a sensible explanation for anything. Zavahier didn’t really believe in it. It was just… fairy tales and nonsense. Stories people told because the Sith seemed so powerful.

But that lightning had to have come from somewhere. And Drassen’s blaster had thrown itself out of his hands, giving Zavahier the chance to attack him. Something magical and strange had happened. Maybe he had to consider the possibility that… the Force might in fact be real.

Except _nothing_ felt real anymore. He had entered some kind of nightmare of blood, lightning and pain.

Zavahier lifted his head and looked at the person crouched beside him. It was Lieutenant Hislan, the man who’d thanked him earlier. The one who’d spoken against unnecessary cruelty to slaves. “ _Am I_ Force-sensitive? Did I do all of this?”

Hislan didn’t answer.

“We’ll let Lord Yunash be the judge of that,” the oldest Imperial officer said from nearby, his voice firm and steady. He reached into his pocket and brought out his holocommunicator, initiating the call to his master.

“Ah, Colonel Vinsoby. What have you to report?” the little blue hologram asked in a deep, aristocratic voice. “You were meeting with… Denal Rawste today, was it not? Will his company suit our purposes?”

“Actually, my lord, there’s been a bit of an… incident,” Vinsoby said, glancing at Zavahier and Hislan, before turning back to his superior. “One of Rawste’s slaves seems to have gone on a rampage.”

The Sith considered this for a moment, stroking one of his facial tendrils in a thoughtful manner. “Well, obviously a man who can’t keep his own slaves under control is of limited usefulness. I’m sure we’ll find somebody else. If that is all?”

“I thought you might like to take a look at the slave in question yourself, my lord. He seems to be able to use the Force,“ Vinsoby said.

These words seemed to pique the Sith’s interest, his stubby eyebrow stalks raising in curiosity. “Oh?”

Vinsoby cleared his throat, a little nervously. “I believe so, yes, my lord. It was quite… violent, with a lot of collateral damage. He used lightning, my lord. A lot of it. Overall body count is eight. Obviously I’m not an expert in such matters, but—“

“But he did things that have no other explanation,” the Sith finished the sentence for him. “Very well, I will come and see this slave.”

After ending the holocall and returning his communicator to his pocket, Vinsoby looked around, and then began issuing further orders to his men. Kill the last few animals, round up the remaining slaves, clear up the bodies.

Zavahier was left alone as Hislan hurried to follow the orders he was given, and he buried his face in his arms again. As the reality of his situation began to sink in – eight people dead, seven of them his fellow slaves, and a terrifying Sith Lord on the way – he knew he _should_ try to flee. But he was exhausted. Every centimetre of his body hurt, from the fight with Drassen, from all the shocks he’d been given. His fingertips had been burned by the electricity – or was it lightning? – and those burns were beginning to sting.

It wasn’t just the physical pain that stopped him trying to run. The fact that his actions had led to so many deaths was settling on his mind like a block of durasteel, heavy and immovable.

A malicious chuckle came from nearby, and Zavahier raised his head to look at his owner.

“A Sith, huh? You’re in for it now, slave,” Rawste said.

That was hard to argue with. For all Rawste had been horrible to work for, generally inflicting a sharp jab of electricity whenever he didn’t like something Zavahier said or did – or something he _imagined_ Zavahier had done – his cruelty was _nothing_ compared to what a Sith could do. Especially since the Force was apparently real. If Zavahier could make lightning out of nothing, what more terrible things was the Sith capable of?

And Sith weren’t known to be particularly kind to their rivals.

Not that Zavahier considered himself a Sith’s equal. He was a slave. Nothing more than property, like a box in a warehouse or a tool to be discarded after it was used.

But he also had to consider what had happened. What he’d done. The Sith would probably kill him outright, just in case Zavahier’s inexplicable powers _might_ be a threat.

~*~*~*~

Almost an hour later, the gates through which Zavahier had been intending on escaping through shuddered open, the metal twisting and buckling as some unseen entity forced them open. A dark figure in long robes, with exaggerated shoulder pads that almost doubled his width, strode into Rawste’s estate, and then paused at the edge of the lawn, looking around with mild curiosity.

It was the Sith, the first one Zavahier had ever been in close proximity to. He was a tall, red-skinned man with facial tendrils that twitched in response to powerful emotions. A lightsabre hung from his belt. And he was flanked by a pair of helmeted Imperial troopers, with a second pair following behind him. He simply radiated power and strength; something about him commanded respect in a way that Rawste never had.

Rawste immediately hurried over to him, bowing and scraping. “Welcome to my establishment, my lord. I’m Denal Rawste, and—“

He was cut off when the Sith Lord raised his hand and lifted him up into the air. Rawste clutched at his throat, struggling to breathe, as though something was wrapped around his neck. Was that the Force? The ability to strangle a man without touching him? Then Yunash’s eyes found Zavahier, and he dropped Rawste unceremoniously on the ground. He walked over, almost seeming to glide, and looked down at him.

“Get up, slave. Let’s have a proper look at you,” Yunash said.

Zavahier obeyed, though when he climbed to his feet, he didn’t feel particularly steady. He stared at the Sith, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, and waited while Yunash spent almost half a minute looking him up and down, scrutinising his body and…

Yes, Zavahier thought he could feel the Sith’s… something… prodding him. It wasn’t a physical sensation, but rather the unsettling feeling of pure darkness brushing against his mind, cold and threatening. He shivered, and took a step back, instinctively recoiling… but the feeling didn’t go away.

Was it Zavahier’s own presence in the Force that sensed the Sith Lord’s power?

“Oh yes, look at you… So much untapped power. And those emotions... Such passion. My, my, don’t you have a lot of potential?” Yunash said, his voice silky and smooth.

There was another long pause.

“Just get on with it!” Zavahier snapped, somehow finding another spark of anger within himself. He probably should have tried to be respectful to the Sith, but he was exhausted and he’d had enough. He wanted all of this to end. He already knew he was going to die. But if Yunash was going to kill him, he’d rather it happened _now_ , not some point in the future whenever the man had _finally_ said whatever he was thinking.

He expected pain. If he’d said that to Rawste, he would have been punished for it. He expected the Sith to use the Force to choke him. Or lightning. Or some other impressively violent way of making his displeasure known.

But it didn’t happen. Yunash just gave a small chuckle. “Alright, if you insist. Colonel Vinsoby, you know what must be done with all untrained Force-sensitive individuals we find within Imperial borders.”

The Imperial officer nodded. “Of course, my lord. I’ll arrange for his transportation to Korriban.”

Zavahier narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “If you want me dead, do it now. I’m not going to be any Sith’s plaything.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me, slave. I don’t want to kill you,” Yunash said, now sounding highly amused. “No, as repulsive as it is, the law states that anyone of sufficient strength in the Force will be trained to use it properly. Even slaves.”

“Uh huh.” Zavahier doubted this apparent act of ‘charity’ was all that it seemed to be.

“I’m not lying to you. If you have the strength to succeed in the trials, then you deserve to succeed. If not… well, the trials have their own way of weeding out the weak. Why should potential such as yours be wasted on… what is it you do? Perform menial labour in your master’s factories?” Yunash asked him, though it was clear he neither wanted nor expected an answer. The daily routine of a slave meant nothing to him.

Zavahier considered this for a moment, and then nodded, accepting the explanation for now. It made a certain amount of sense. If the Force truly did exist – which he was inclined to accept, now that he’d actually _seen_ it – then it must still be quite rare. A slave who could use the Force would be more useful being trained. It _did_ make sense.

This meant he was gaining his freedom, but he still didn’t have the option to choose where he would go. He would face the Sith trials on Korriban, or he would die. But he didn’t _want_ to be Sith. He knew enough about them to be afraid of them, and what he’d seen of Yunash had not convinced him that life as a Sith would be anything but violent. That was _not_ what he wanted his life to be like. Training as Sith was not what he’d had in mind when he’d dreamed of freedom. There was nothing free about constantly having to fight just to stay alive.

The best that could be said was it was a better option than the menial work he’d done as a slave. There were opportunities for a Sith that a slave would never have.

Yet Zavahier wasn’t happy about it.

Neither was Rawste. He’d gotten to his feet, and now strode over to Zavahier and Yunash. “You can’t just take him! That’s my slave, and he’s caused a lot of damage.”

Yunash finally seemed to notice Rawste again, and he was silent for another few seconds as he looked from Rawste to Zavahier and back again, studying them both intently. “Is that the only reason?”

“Of course. Because of him, all my animals are dead, and so are seven of my slaves _and_ my beastmaster. A million credits worth of damage! Or more! You can’t let him run off to play Sith!”

There was a sudden chill in the air, and Yunash’s next words were like ice. “Who are you to say what a Sith cannot do?”

“It’s my right to punish him for his disobedience,” Rawste insisted.

“Not any longer, it isn’t. I ought to kill you now. But…” Yunash looked away from Rawste, returning to studying Zavahier. “Hmmm… I wonder if I’m not the right person to do it.”

Zavahier shifted uncomfortably as the Sith _continued_ staring at him. And the man’s words just didn’t make a lot of sense, yet clearly Yunash thought he’d realised _something_ important. Fine. Zavahier would play along. “Am I missing something?”

Yunash chuckled. “Yes, I rather think you are. Is there something you haven’t told him, Rawste?”

“No,” Rawste said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You are aware that Sith can detect lies, aren’t you?” Yunash asked, and when Rawste still didn’t explain what they were talking about, the Sith turned to Zavahier. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Denal Rawste is your father.”

“ _What_?” Zavahier asked, looking away from the Sith Lord in order to stare at his owner. He thought it had to be a lie. It just sounded so insane. How could _Rawste_ be his father? But Rawste wouldn’t meet his gaze. “No, that doesn’t make sense. He… the shocks… the cage… Everything he did to me…”

And then…

“ _Why_?” There was a galaxy full of hurt and betrayal in that one word. Another small spark of lightning crackled over his fingers. Rawste flinched even though it didn’t even come close to hitting him.

“I’m going to hazard a guess and say he’s ashamed of you,” Yunash said smoothly. “It’s not unheard of for masters to use their slaves for pleasure, and a baby often results. A child born into slavery. Usually hurriedly sold so their father doesn’t have to look at them day after day, a constant reminder of how he chose to use his power.”

As Yunash explained this, Zavahier stared at Rawste, unable to tear his eyes away. This man was his father? His father. His actual father. Maybe if he thought those words enough, it would start to make sense. Insofar as _anything_ about today made sense.

“I wonder why he kept you?” Yunash asked. “Afraid of someone finding out, perhaps? Ah, but any true Imperial wouldn’t care. Masters use their slaves for their own pleasure all the time. But Denal Rawste, Republic scum that he is, found it shameful. Embarrassing, even. So he tried to hide what he’d done from the rest of the galaxy.” There was the briefest of silence, before Yunash spoke again, more softly this time. “Would you like to kill him, acolyte?”

Would he?

That was an incredibly complicated question. Right now, Zavahier wasn’t even sure what to think. He couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the eight bodies laid out at the edge of the grass. Drassen, who he’d beaten to death. Six slaves trampled by a stampede he had started. Sarikoy killed by a bolt of lightning he had created. There had been enough death today. He didn’t want to kill anybody else.

And yet…

Zavahier looked at Rawste. His owner. A man that he hated. There was no doubt about that in his mind. Not anymore.

But did Zavahier want to _kill_ him?

If the Sith had asked that earlier today, Zavahier would have said ‘yes’, without even the slightest hesitation. Over the years, he’d thought of thousands of ways he’d have liked to do it. He’d _drawn_ some of them on the floor of that hated cage.

But right now?

Zavahier opened his mouth to tell Yunash that he didn’t want to kill anybody else today. He’d been responsible for enough deaths already. Yet before he could speak, that dark power pressed into his mind again, rifling through his memories and emotions, before focusing upon the drawings on the floor.

“Your mind tells me otherwise,” the Sith said before Zavahier could speak. “Colonel, remove his collar. Let’s give him the chance to test his strength against his former master.”

Vinsoby nodded, and moved around behind Zavahier. After a moment of fiddling, there was an audible _click_ , and the collar came away from his neck. It was like a weight had lifted, and Zavahier raised his hand to run his fingers across his bare skin. A smile flickered briefly across his face, an expression of pure pleasure. The collar had been there all his life, and now it was gone. He was free.

And then he thought of just how this freedom had come about. He thought of everything he’d done tonight, everything that had brought him here, to this moment.

Zavahier’s smile vanished, and he lowered his hand. There was nothing to be happy about here.

“In your own time, then, acolyte. Kill him,” Yunash said.

It was an order, wasn’t it?

Not from a master to a slave. But with about as much room for refusal.

Zavahier looked away from Yunash, once again casting his eyes over the enormous mess in the area around him. Dozens of dead animals lying all over the now torn and muddied lawn. Eight dead _people_. Then he turned his gaze, finally, to Rawste. His owner’s eyes were wide as he silently pleaded for mercy. If Zavahier concentrated, he could actually _feel_ the man’s fear.

Now he thought about it, he realised he’d _always_ been able to feel it. Maybe that was why it had been so hard to respect Rawste. The man had always been frightened of his own slaves, fearing what they would do to him if they had the chance. Afraid of Zavahier in particular. And now that he recognised it for what it was, it somehow made Rawste seem… different.

Weak.

Pathetic.

It was only the shock collar that had kept Zavahier in line all these years.

And now he was free.

Zavahier looked at Yunash again. The Sith was still watching, saying nothing, but still… expectant.

Right.

He was going to do this.

He had the strength. He had the power. He was going to be a Sith. Weakness had no place in his future, and he couldn’t show any now.

Zavahier focused, trying to draw on that inner power. He felt it within him, recognising it as the spark that had always made it so hard for him to submit to Rawste, a smouldering ember that could never be extinguished. Power like that wasn’t meant to be contained. It wasn’t meant to be restrained.

It was meant to be _used_.

He stretched out his hand, and thought about every shock Rawste had ever given him, whether he’d deserved it or not. He reminded himself of those weeks spent locked away, ignored and isolated. He thought about every time he’d wanted to lash out at his owner. And he thought of the mother he could barely remember, who had been raped by Rawste and forced to bear his child.

And he thought about how weak Rawste looked now; giving up his silent pleas, the man was now begging for his life. “Please don’t kill me… please… I don’t want to die… I’m sorry…” Rawste said, beginning to sob as tears rolled down his face.

That helped. Zavahier remembered all the times Rawste’s slaves had begged him not to hurt them. He’d never had any mercy for them, so why should Zavahier show mercy now? Bright sparks erupted from Zavahier’s fingers. And faded again almost as quickly, barely touching Rawste at all.

He tried again without even looking at Yunash to acknowledge the failure. The second time, the lightning was more substantial, and the crackling purple tendrils wreathed around Rawste. He fell backwards onto the floor, squirming and writhing as the lightning ravaged his body, and he screamed loudly. Once again the lightning faltered, this time because Zavahier reacted instinctively to the man’s pain; he remembered too much suffering of his own to take any pleasure in seeing even someone as repulsive as Rawste experiencing the same.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Yunash shift his stance slightly, but Zavahier didn’t give him the chance to do any more than that. Again the lightning burst from his fingers. Zavahier had to remind himself that Rawste _deserved_ this. Rawste had been torturing him for years. Made his life a misery. Shocked him. Beaten him. Starved him. Isolated him. Ignored him. Hurt his friends. Raped his mother. Zavahier _hated_ Rawste. He hated everything Rawste had done to him. Everything he was. Everything he stood for.

And through that hate, anger rose, another familiar emotion he’d carried with him for so long. Always burning with impotent rage, forced into a life of servitude. Always living in fear of what new suffering disobedience would bring.

The lightning grew brighter, stronger. Rawste’s screams were louder, more agonised.

“That’s it. Use your passion,” Yunash told him approvingly. “Anger. Fear. Hatred. They make you strong.” It was almost as if the Sith _knew_ what Zavahier was feeling.

With another surge of electricity, Rawste’s screams stopped and his body became limp. The odour of singed flesh and burned clothing was strong, and Zavahier wrinkled his nose in revulsion. Feeling rather disgusted with himself, and now believing his power completely spent, he stepped back, putting a bit more distance between himself and the body of his former owner. He was panting from the exertion and his body was completely soaked in his own sweat, but he looked at Yunash, searching for the Sith’s reaction.

“Rather good for a first attempt, especially for a slave,” Yunash said appraisingly, and there was definitely a bit of a smile on his face. “Imagine what you’ll be capable of with a little practice.”

Zavahier guessed that meant his performance had been at least adequate. He wished he had a measure to compare himself against, though; he’d faltered twice, but he’d nevertheless succeeded in killing Rawste. Yet when he looked at Rawste’s body, he found he _couldn_ _’t_ look at it, and he turned away from it, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

Did other Sith acolytes go through this? Did they struggle with their powers at first? Did killing come more naturally to them than it had to him? Did they feel like _this_?

Zavahier didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. Had they been in a more private setting, he might have asked Yunash. Or maybe not; if one thing was clear, it was that weakness wasn’t going to be tolerated. There wasn’t any room in Zavahier’s life for uncertainty. A slave could be weak and no one would care. A Sith would never have that option.

That was what his freedom was going to cost him.


	3. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first steps towards freedom are definitely the hardest, as there is always a little fear of the unknown.

The next half an hour was something of a blur. Zavahier watched in silence as all of Rawste’s slaves were gathered together so that Lord Yunash could inspect them for Force-sensitivity as well. They huddled close to each other, their eyes wide and frightened, but at least they were together. Zavahier longed to go over to them, to hide himself in the middle of the group, to be just another face in the crowd. Standing alone, marked as different due to his unexpected Force-sensitivity, was a terrifying position to be in.

Yet Zavahier knew he couldn’t rejoin them. He’d gotten some of them killed. People he’d lived with for years. People he cared about. The knowledge weighed on him, and when he met the eyes of the other slaves, he saw that they knew it too. Calopi, Brahav and Sarikoy were dead because of him. The other slaves looked just as frightened of Zavahier now as they were of the Sith. None of them could meet his gaze for long, choosing instead to look away.

Except Icallijo, who was watching him sadly.

Zavahier wanted to talk to him. To say _something_. But even if he’d had the option, what could he have possibly said? What words would ever make this right? Zavahier couldn’t take back any of the things he’d done. The others would never forgive him for getting so many of them killed. And nor should they.

None of the other slaves seemed to impress Yunash. He gave each of them a cursory look over, before turning away from them and walking towards Zavahier. “Looks like you’re the only one. Doesn’t that make you feel special?”

Zavahier just nodded numbly, not actually feeling all that special. Mostly he felt like…

A murderer.

A monster.

A vicious, violent _thing_.

And he would soon be amongst hundreds of other vicious, violent beings.

Not exactly the kind of crowd he wanted to hide in.

It would have been better to go to Korriban with even _one_ of the other slaves. At least there would have been one friendly face, somebody that he knew and trusted. Another former slave. Somebody like him. Zavahier hadn’t missed the contempt Yunash held for slaves. The law that required he be trained in how to use the Force was _repulsive_ , wasn’t it? That had been the word used. Repulsive.

Was that attitude common amongst the Sith?

Probably.

So where did that leave Zavahier?

Too much a slave to truly be Sith.

Too much a Sith to ever belong amongst slaves again.

That realisation settled on him, and he looked away from his fellow slaves. But nothing else he saw around him made him feel any better about his situation, and he ended up looking down at the ground beneath his feet. He _should_ have been happy about being granted his freedom. To be given the chance to learn how to do incredible, amazing things with a mystical power that he had, until this point, believed to be exaggerations at best. How many people ever had such an opportunity?

Yet when Zavahier had imagined freedom in the past, he had imagined the other slaves being freed too.

“Remember this day, acolyte. Remember all the things you’re feeling right now,” Yunash told him.

Zavahier lifted his head and regarded the Sith warily. “Somehow I don’t think I’ll forget any of this.”

When Yunash didn’t respond, Zavahier looked away, his eyes finding the eight bodies laid out at the edge of the grass. And then a thought struck him. A question. “Why now? I… I’ve never done anything like this before. Why can I use the Force now, and not—“

“And not at some other point in your life? Perhaps on some other occasion your father did something to attract your ire?” Yunash asked.

Well, that probably wasn’t _quite_ the way Zavahier would have phrased it, but…

“Yes.”

“Force-sensitivity is present from birth, so you have always had this—“ Yunash gestured at the carnage around them, “—inside you. The Force often lies dormant in those who are unaware of their connection to it. They use it subconsciously, making themselves strong or lucky – or perhaps exceptionally strong-willed – without ever realising they can use it for so much more. You just needed the right catalyst to awaken the power within you.”

“I didn’t mean for anybody to die,” Zavahier replied, not feeling even remotely proud of what he had achieved today. If anything, he was _frightened_ of the Force, having seen first-hand how destructive it could be. He’d felt its power, used it instinctively, and lost control of it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to use it again.

“With time, you’ll learn to control the Force. To kill only those you _intend_ to kill,” Yunash said.

Zavahier was silent for a moment, trying to work out the best way to tell Yunash that he’d completely missed the point. Realising that there probably wasn’t a right way to say it, he settled for, “I don’t want to kill anybody.”

“Of course not,” Yunash said, with a faintly amused and almost affectionate tone that he might have used to talk to a young, naïve child. “You feel guilty about what you’ve done today? Good! Such feelings are powerful. Feed on them, grow stronger, and maybe you’ll even survive the trials.”

“Is that what being Sith is about?” Zavahier asked. A lifetime of feeling guilty and afraid didn’t sound very appealing, no matter how powerful it might make him. How would such a life be any different to being a slave?

“Oh, no. Of course not. It’s about _freedom_ ,” Yunash said. “I would think a slave would appreciate that.”

Zavahier thought about this, but he just didn’t understand what Yunash was trying to explain. How did feeling guilty about all the deaths he’d caused make him stronger? How did such heavy emotions make him free? None of it made any sense.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted at last.

“And that’s precisely why you’re being sent to Korriban. The instructors there will teach you,” Yunash said, apparently not thinking it much of a problem that Zavahier didn’t know much – or anything – about his own powers.

Colonel Vinsoby and Lieutenant Hislan approached them, and after offering a bow of respect to Yunash, Vinsoby said, “My lord, my men have secured the area and shut down all the equipment. We can probably still make use of these factories. Several of Rawste’s men are eager to be of service.”

“Excellent, perhaps our project can still go ahead,” Yunash replied.

“Additionally, I have made enquiries, and a transport en route to Korriban will be stopping here to refuel tomorrow afternoon,” Vinsoby added.

“Good. See to it that this acolyte receives medical care, a good meal… and my, yes, definitely a bath,” Yunash said.

Zavahier felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and he shuffled away from Yunash, entirely too conscious of being covered in blood and sweat, and _smelling_ like it too. After Rawste had gone to such efforts to clean his slaves for today, too. Now Zavahier was filthy again.

“Lieutenant Hislan will take care of it,” Vinsoby replied. “Since he likes slaves so much.”

That was clearly intended to be an insult, but Hislan just turned to Zavahier and smiled, completely unfazed. “Come on, let’s get you sorted out, shall we?”

Zavahier hesitated, however, looking back at Icallijo and the other slaves. He’d been with many of them for most of his life, and they were the closest thing he had to a family. What would happen to them now? Would they be safe? Rawste was gone, and they now belonged to the Empire. Zavahier wasn’t sure if he really liked that idea… but he also knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Hislan saw his hesitation, and said, “You can’t worry about them anymore. Come on.”

“But—“ Zavahier began.

“Lord Yunash has work for them. You can’t stay with them.”

“I know. But I…” Zavahier said, before giving up and moving to follow Hislan. He was too tired to argue, and he knew it was impossible for Icallijo and the others to be freed as he had been. If it weren’t for his Force-sensitivity, he’d be dead now, and he had to accept that his fellow slaves were probably lucky to still be alive too.

It didn’t make him feel any better about being free when they weren’t. He never thought he’d have to do it alone.

“Put them out of your mind. The Sith trials are notoriously hard, from what I understand. Most acolytes die in the attempt, and… well, you’ll be at a physical disadvantage. If you want to live, you can’t let yourself be distracted,” Hislan said.

That was probably the politest way anybody had ever called him ‘small and weak’. Years of neglect and deprivation had left Zavahier short for his age and rather bony in build. So that gave him one more thing to worry about: the fact that the other acolytes would be physically stronger than him as well as willing to use the Force to its fullest destructive purposes.

Zavahier followed as Hislan led the way towards the rather mangled front gates, but stopped at the threshold of Rawste’s estate, looking out into the city beyond. It was dark and quiet, with the road bathed in yellow light by a row of lamps. There was nobody else around. But just the fact that it was outside his owner’s property, a place he had never been permitted to go, made it both exciting… and terrifying. He couldn’t quite bring himself to step over the threshold.

Hislan realised that Zavahier was no longer following him, and turned back. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yes,” Zavahier said firmly. He reached up and touched his neck, reassuring himself that the collar was gone. He was free. He could walk out of Rawste’s estate, and nobody would punish him for doing so. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what still _felt_ like a forbidden thing. Then he stepped forward.

And nothing bad happened.

Zavahier paused for a moment, looking around, still half expecting an electric shock at any moment.

He took another step.

And then another.

The realisation dawned that there really was no punishment awaiting him. No pain or humiliation. He was free. He was outside Rawste’s estate, and nothing horrible was happening to him at all.

Yet the world around him, no longer bounded by the bars of a cage or high enclosing walls, seemed so vast that he felt thoroughly lost. The road stretched out in several directions. To the right, it ended at a huge metal gate, beyond which was darkness. To the left, it followed the wall of Rawste’s estate and then continued straight towards the rest of the city, which was awash with thousands of bright lights. And straight ahead of Zavahier, it went towards a large, open area, in the centre of which was a stone structure in the centre of a small pool. Water erupted from several points on the structure, with individual droplets sparkling like flecks of gold.

It was _beautiful_.

At first Zavahier thought it was just a larger version of the sprinklers Rawste had used to keep the lawn green, but when he looked more closely, he couldn’t see _any_ plants being watered by it. The sprays of water coming from the top of the structure simply fell back into the pool underneath it.

“What’s that for?” Zavahier asked, taking a few steps towards it.

Hislan followed his gaze, and then smiled. “It’s a water fountain. It’s just there to look pretty. You’ve never seen one before?”

Zavahier stopped walking, glancing briefly at Hislan, before looking down at the ground, entirely too aware of – and uncomfortable with – his own ignorance. “Of course I have. Rawste let us wander around the city and look at fountains _all the time_.”

“So… you don’t want to get a closer look at it?”

Zavahier met Hislan’s gaze, searching for the kind of cruelty he had come to expect from Rawste – and by extension, everybody else in the galaxy – where such an offer might be made only to tear it away at the last moment. But the Imperial officer just gestured towards the fountain, inviting Zavahier to investigate it if he so desired.

So he did. Pushing aside the numbness he felt from the horror and violence of the evening, Zavahier walked towards the fountain. And then sprinted the last few metres, before coming to a halt in front of it. The main structure of the fountain was in fact a column about three metres tall, with water shooting out of five spars at the very top. Water droplets fell into several smaller pools connected to the column, before finally falling into the larger pool at the very bottom. Yellow and orange lights at various points on the structure created the illusion that each drop of water was molten gold. The pool at the base was filled with smooth, slightly translucent pebbles, through which submerged lights shone.

Zavahier leaned over and put his hand in the falling water. And then, on a whim, he took one of the pebbles from the pool. It fit in the palm of his hand, and wasn’t _quite_ as yellow as the lights in the fountain made it look. He glanced at Hislan, expecting to be scolded for taking the pebble.

“You know, I’m almost jealous of you,” Hislan remarked quietly.

Zavahier stood up and moved away from the fountain frowning slightly as he tried to figure out how that statement made even the slightest bit of sense. How could an Imperial officer, a well-fed, well-dressed man who had never been a slave possibly be jealous of _him_? Hislan had undoubtedly seen and done things Zavahier could never imagine.

“Oh yes, I’ve got _so_ much for you to be envious of,” Zavahier said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. As far as he was concerned, his life contained nothing that anybody would ever want. Even his sensitivity to the Force didn’t feel very desirable, given its only use was to kill people.

“It’s not like that,” Hislan replied. “I just realised that so much of life is practically routine. Travelling to new worlds, going on missions to far flung corners of the galaxy, even the things I’ve seen Lord Yunash do aren’t very exciting now that I’m used to them. But it’s all brand new to you.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Zavahier said.

“It is. It really is. Don’t look at your inexperience as a negative thing. Just enjoy being able to experience everything – even something as simple as a water fountain – for the very first time. That’s something _I_ _’ll_ never have,” Hislan insisted.

Zavahier considered this for a few moments. It did make a bit more sense when Hislan explained at that way.

And yet…

He would still have traded the novelty of a fountain for having never been a slave at all.

He looked at the pebble in his hand, and was torn between pocketing it and tossing it back into the pool. The latter felt more appropriate to his current state of mind. His initial excitement about the fountain had melted away, to be replaced by a much darker and more familiar emotion, and the pebble felt quite meaningless.

Zavahier threw it.

And changed his mind the moment it left his hand.

As if responding to his instant regret, the pebble almost reached the water, before changing direction and flying back to him. He snatched it out of the air and closed his fingers around it. Even if it was a pointless token, it was still _his_.

He realised only several seconds later that he’d instinctively used the Force to bring the pebble back to him.

Maybe the Force _did_ have more uses than just murder and violence?

Zavahier put the pebble in his pocket, and took one final look at the fountain, before turning to Hislan. “Alright, I’m done.”

Walking side by side – another new experience for Zavahier – they returned to the road, and Hislan went towards the closest of six speeders parked against the wall and climbed into the driver’s seat. It was a sleek grey vehicle, and bore the Imperial crest. These speeders were probably how Vinsoby and the others had reached Rawste’s estate. Zavahier hesitated, but when Hislan nodded to the passenger seat, he climbed into the speeder as well.

Zavahier watched curiously as Hislan started the engine, and used the controls – a steering wheel and a whole array of buttons – to make the speeder rise into the air. It was yet another gap in Zavahier’s knowledge, because the last thing any owner wanted was for a slave to be able to use a vehicle.

As the speeder rose higher, however, he became more interested in the view outside it. He could see Rawste’s estate, an oblong area of land enclosed by walls, and mostly filled with factories that looked so much _smaller_ from here. The damage to the garden was more obvious too, with the churned up lawn looking like a patchwork of green and brown. Zavahier’s fellow slaves were nowhere in sight, however.

“Can we go higher?” Zavahier asked as he turned his gaze to the rest of the city.

“Of course,” Hislan said, and the speeder rose again.

Rawste’s estate grew smaller, and soon Zavahier could see other buildings as well. Rawste’s estate was surrounded by what were probably other factories, but they were smaller, and not surrounded by luxurious gardens. Beyond the factories, towards the centre of the city, were hundreds of smaller buildings, through which a maze of roads and paths wound. There were several open areas too, like the place with the fountain.

More striking, though, were all the lights! Veah was beautiful from up here, like a brighter and more golden version of the night’s sky.

It was only a few minutes before the speeder began its descent, and then Hislan brought it in for a smooth landing outside a tall building with Imperial banners hanging from every wall. Many of the lights inside were on, and even though it was now late in the evening, a few people were coming and going. The open doors and pristine reception area visible within were probably supposed to make the building feel somewhat welcoming… but as Zavahier climbed out of the speeder, all he could think was that it looked intimidating in its cleanliness and order.

“Come on,” Hislan said as he got out of the speeder and led the way through the open doors.

Zavahier followed rather reluctantly, feeling that he really _didn_ _’t belong_ in a place like this. All the people were… well, a lot like Hislan really. Perfect examples of Imperial efficiency and organisation. A filthy slave had no place here, and when someone walking in the opposite direction gave him a curious look, Zavahier’s first instinct was to flee. Without Hislan’s presence, he probably would have done exactly that.

But a slave following an officer…

Yes, that was what he looked like.

A grey-coloured droid approached, barely sparing Zavahier a glance before addressing Hislan. “Hello, I’m medical droid SV-9A. How can I help you?”

“This is… uh…” Hislan started, before breaking off. He turned to Zavahier. “What did you say your name was?”

“Zavahier. Zavahier Khalla,” he answered. It took a moment to remember his family name; he’d not heard or used it in a very long time. But if he was going to be considered a real person now, he supposed he would need it, and he much preferred to use his mother’s family name than ‘Rawste’. ‘Khalla’ was a Caekarran name, part of a proud history of independence from both the Empire _and_ the Republic. As a small child, he’d been told his father was in the resistance, fighting against the Empire’s dominion over Caekarro.

Obviously he now knew that was a lie, but the _idea_ of it was something Zavahier wanted to hold onto. Being Sith meant being a part of their Empire… but that didn’t mean they owned him. No matter what else happened, he would always be Caekarran. And he wanted his mother’s family name, something that represented freedom, rather than his father’s name and its associations with cowardice and binding chains.

“Right, this is Zavahier, and he’s a Sith acolyte. He needs to be checked over before we send him on to Korriban,” Hislan said.

And suddenly, Zavahier wasn’t just an object to be glanced at and then forgotten. The droid’s gaze shifted from Hislan to Zavahier, actually _seeing_ him for the first time. It looked him up and down, taking in his bony frame, bruised jaw, sweat and blood soaked clothing, and overall state of complete exhaustion.

“Alright, come with me,” SV-9A said, gesturing for Zavahier to go with it. Apparently his appearance mattered very little: he might have looked like an exhausted and half-starved slave, but if Hislan said he was a Sith acolyte, then he was going to get medical treatment.

It was all very surreal. Zavahier still wasn’t _entirely_ sure that any of this was really happening. He would probably wake up at any moment, and find himself back in the cage.

“Go with SV-9A. He’ll look after you. I have a few things to organise, but I’ll be back in the morning, alright?” Hislan said.

Zavahier _wasn_ _’t_ alright. He was in a strange, frightening place, and being left with a droid he knew nothing about and had no reason to trust. But he still had his pride, and he wasn’t going to _admit_ to feeling unsure that he even belonged here. He could do this. He didn’t need Hislan to look after him. A droid poking and prodding him couldn’t be any worse than any of the things Rawste had ever done to him.

So Zavahier followed the droid deeper into the medical facility. After going up several floors and then walking down a long corridor, SV-9A showed him into a private room.

“You’re going to need a thorough examination. Would you prefer a human doctor for that?” SV-9A asked.

Zavahier shrugged in response. It didn’t really matter to him whether it was a person or a droid inspecting his body. The concept of even having a choice in the matter was completely alien to him, and he probably couldn’t have made a solid decision on the matter even if pressed to do so. Besides, he’d spent enough time in close proximity to other slaves that he knew the humanoid body was pretty much a standard design across many species. There was likely nothing about him that the medical droid hadn’t seen before.

So he removed his shirt when bid to do so, gratefully exchanged his filthy trousers for a clean pair of shorts, and sat down on the examination table to let SV-9A do its job. The worst part about it was how _cold_ he felt, with goose bumps prickling his skin when the droid pressed a metal device to his chest so it could listen to his heart.

The rest of the examination was similarly professional and business-like, not too dissimilar to the way a slave was examined for imperfections. Except where Rawste or one of his men would cluck their tongue disapprovingly, SV-9A offered no judgement beyond the simple fact that he was in poor physical condition. It scanned him from head to toe, checking more aspects of Zavahier’s biology than he’d even been aware he _had_ , before reeling off a list of minor ailments that he needed to be treated for. No surprises there, given where he’d come from. The only ones he understood were ‘parasites’ and the fact that he was mildly near-sighted. The rest had complicated names that meant nothing to him.

SV-9A gave him several injections, and two jars of pills, one containing nutritional supplements and the other a month long course of medication to get rid of the parasites. And a list of foods he should eat in order to accustom his body to regular meals, and then to build muscle and gain a little weight, a necessity if he wished to survive the Sith trials.

The droid mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that he should see a doctor when he landed on Korriban, as his full recovery from the hardships of slavery would take a while. His eyesight would be expensive to correct, requiring genetic resequencing that was far beyond his present means, but it wouldn’t cause him any significant problems in his training. SV-9A didn’t outright _say_ it, but Zavahier had the distinct impression that it thought his chances of living long were low.

Then SV-9A turned its attention to the injuries he’d received during his brief rebellion. A blue salve – a substance apparently called kolto – was applied to all the bruises he’d received over the course of the evening. And then SV-9A considered the burns on his fingertips.

“Burned by your own lightning?” the droid asked matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal  injury.

“Yes,” Zavahier answered. The fact that injuring himself with his own powers was seen as practically routine was just _incredibly_ reassuring, wasn’t it? Not to mention the fact that it was considered unlikely he would survive more than a few weeks on Korriban.

Just wonderful.

“Not to worry, the kolto will heal that right up. Have you ever been in a kolto tank?” SV-9A asked.

As if it didn’t know perfectly well what the answer was! “No.”

“That’s not a problem,” SV-9A said, getting up and leading him through into the next room, where a whole line of large cylindrical tanks stood against the far wall. Several of them were already occupied, though most of the occupants seemed to be asleep. The medical droid paid them no heed, and pressed a few buttons on the panel at the front of the nearest empty chamber. The cylinder of glass slid open. “Just step inside, and put the breathing apparatus over your nose and mouth.”

Zavahier did she directed, feeling incredibly self-conscious of his own underfed body, especially with his movements being surreptitiously observed by other medical personnel and one of the other kolto tank occupants. He was also highly aware of how much he stank of sweat and fear. The droid politely refrained from commenting about _either_ however – did droids even have a sense of smell? – and instead contented itself with explaining the kolto tank.

“It’ll feel a little strange, but it’s perfectly safe,” SV-9A said as Zavahier stepped inside. When the panel slid closed, a tube with a mouthpiece dropped down from the top, and light blue liquid began to rise from the floor, slowly filling the tank. “Just try to relax.”

That was easier said than done; even with the breathing tube providing him with air, the feel of the liquid rushing into a perfectly sealed tube was worrying. What if he couldn’t breathe? What if he drowned? As the kolto rose, Zavahier began breathing more rapidly, then panicked as it reached his head, completely submerging him. The instinct was to hold his breath.

“No, no, don’t do that. Just breathe normally. You’ll be alright,” SV-9A said in a voice that lacked sufficient emotion to sound as reassuring as it intended. The droid sounded oddly muffled through the combination of glass and blue kolto.

It was hard to trust SV-9A’s word. Zavahier was sure if he breathed, he would drown. But after another few seconds, he realised he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, and breathed in automatically. Instead of filling his lungs with the blue liquid, it was just air, and he realised he’d been quite silly to believe himself to be in any danger.

He couldn’t help but despise his own ignorance.

“Are you comfortable?” the droid asked.

Unable to speak with the breathing apparatus in his mouth, Zavahier responded by giving a thumbs up signal. That was a more positive gesture than he actually felt, but he couldn’t think of any better way to communicate that he wasn’t afraid. He was still uneasy, of course, but he was at least sure his life was in no immediate danger. As SV-9A had promised, this did indeed feel quite strange. The kolto was the perfect temperature, warm enough to feel comfortable without actually being hot, and he could already feel the aches and pains in his body beginning to fade. He floated in the middle of the tube, his feet not touching the bottom, but if he reached out in front of him, he could place his hand on the glass. The blue kolto gave his mid-brown skin an oddly sickly pallour.

“Just relax. Try to get some sleep if you can,” SV-9A suggested.

Zavahier wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do that with the droid pottering around the room outside the tank. He watched for a little while as it checked the settings for the kolto tank, making minor adjustments to its composition, and then went to the computer to enter some data. Then it went to speak to one of the other medical droids, but from this distance Zavahier couldn’t tell what was said.

But there was just so much going on in the ward that Zavahier didn’t feel he could relax at all. People coming and going, medical personnel – both droids and humans – working. And that feeling of being somewhere he shouldn’t be was still very strong. Maybe this was all a trap, and if he closed his eyes, he’d be vulnerable to attack. Maybe some human doctor would walk in, see a former slave, and order the droid to throw him out onto the street. Maybe all of this was an elaborate hoax put together by Rawste for the sole purpose of crushing his will.

Yes, these thoughts might be far-fetched. But so was the idea that the Force was real and he could use it.

A lot of weird things had happened today.

None of it really felt very real.

Yet despite his disbelief that he could actually relax in a place like this, he soon began to feel drowsy. He became less able to focus on what SV-9A was doing, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open.

Before long he drifted off to sleep without even realising it had happened.


	4. A New Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier officially becomes a citizen of the Sith Empire, and begins his journey to Korriban.

The room was dark, and the air had the musty scent of a place left long undisturbed. There were carvings on the wall, but Zavahier couldn’t quite make out what they were. Or what they said. There was something oppressive about this place, but it was filled with a kind of energy. Powerful, dangerous, yet…

Not quite familiar. That wasn’t the right word because he’d never encountered anything like this. But there was a kind of… vibration, a power that resonated with his own. A connection of some kind.

It was close.

Not touching him, but still nearby. It was passive at first, but then it seemed to shift, as if drawing breath for the first time in…

How long?

Zavahier wasn’t sure if it was he that asked the question, or someone – or something – else. But there was nobody around him; he looked around quickly to make sure of that fact, and he was definitely alone in this place.

And yet he wasn’t. There was something else here with him. Something that had lain dormant for years. Decades.

Centuries?

Perhaps.

It wasn’t fully conscious yet, but the little spark that was Zavahier’s power brushed against the dark essence around him. For a moment, he saw a dark jungle, saw the outline of a moving figure who was both a friend and a rival. A great army to be led into battle. Endless thoughts of tactics and strategy. He felt power and rage. Certainty. Confidence. Strength. A whole host of other things that were… definitely _not_ things Zavahier liked to associate with himself.

But there was definitely _something_ here. Something that _wasn_ _’t_ him.

_Wake up!_

No. He was too tired. He wanted to sleep.

_Now!_

Zavahier woke with a start. And had a momentary surge of fear to find himself floating in a tube of blue liquid, almost completely naked, with an Imperial officer gazing in at him. Then he remembered where he was. And who was looking at him.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Lieutenant Hislan asked.

Zavahier considered this, and then shrugged. Physically he felt a lot better; his muscles no longer ached, and his singed fingers were now completely healed. Mentally… that was a different matter. He still felt rather drained and tired, though not as much as he had before. And that dream… It wasn’t like any other dream he’d ever had. It was more… real somehow. Yet as Zavahier’s mind cleared and he became more alert, the dream began to fade, the details disappearing, leaving him with a lingering sense of unease.

SV-9A approached, and after taking a few moments to consult the tank’s control panel, it began to drain the kolto. Zavahier wobbled slightly when his feet touched the floor, but quickly regained his balance. He pulled off the breathing apparatus, and the moment the panel slid aside, he darted out of the kolto tank. He really wasn’t sure he liked those things much. It felt too much like being trapped. Like being locked in a cage.

He was directed towards a cubicle containing a shower. Hot water stripped away the kolto clinging to his skin, as well as what felt like the accumulated dirt and grime from his entire _life_ as a slave. He could have stayed in there for hours, just enjoying being fully _clean_ for the first time he could remember. But after a quarter of an hour, Lieutenant Hislan interrupted him, shutting off the water and pushing a towel into his hands.

“Come on, we don’t have all day,” Hislan said by way of an explanation.

Zavahier began drying himself off, only to stop when he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Startled, he turned towards it, only to see somebody else looking back at him. An emaciated young man with dark hair and eyes… and bearing a striking similarity to a younger, thinner version of a face he’d seen many times. What had been obvious to Yunash became clear to Zavahier as well.

He looked a _lot_ like his father.

Or what Rawste would have looked like if he were thirty years younger and had been abused and neglected his entire life.

Zavahier’s nose was a little longer, and his hair was an unruly tangle of loose curls, quite unlike Rawste’s short and straight hair, and his skin was darker than his father’s too. There was absolutely no fat or muscle on him at all; despite his night in the kolto tank, he still looked hollow-cheeked and tired. He was only barely recognisable as human at all.

But if he looked _beyond_ that, the traces of his true heritage were plain to see. He had Rawste’s eyes, mouth and jaw. And when he frowned at his reflection, disliking what he could see, the expression of faint revulsion was one he’d seen on Rawste’s face a thousand times too.

And he realised that his fellow slaves must have known the truth. They couldn’t have seen Zavahier and Rawste together without seeing the similarities between them.

Which meant they had concealed Zavahier’s own heritage from him.

But _why_?

And yet… Zavahier had seen his own reflection before, hadn’t he? In metal surfaces and window panes. Not that he’d ever _studied_ himself before, but he knew his own face when he saw it. He had just been… unwilling or unable to see the truth. Maybe he had never _wanted_ to see this obvious truth.

He turned away from the mirror, and he took the clean clothes Hislan offered to him. They were fairly plain, a loose dark red shirt and black trousers, but still better than anything Zavahier had ever owned before. The fabric was soft to the touch, not coarse or itchy, and though these clothes were rather loose on him, they fit better than anything he’d ever worn before. There was a pair of heavy boots, too, which he crouched to put on. After dressing himself, Zavahier looked down at himself and an odd thought occurred to him: he didn’t look like a slave anymore. He looked like…

A real person.

His old clothes had clearly been disposed of – hopefully incinerated – but his other belongings had been put in a small bag and brought into the cubicle. The pebble Zavahier had taken from the fountain was put into his pocket, and he was about to tuck Drassen’s blaster into his waist band when Hislan stopped him.

“Where did you get that?” Hislan asked.

“I took it from Drassen last night,” Zavahier said, actually rather surprised that nobody had noticed the blaster before. But then, most people never really saw slaves at all, did they? He could have kept a whole arsenal in his trousers without anybody paying attention.

“Give it to me,” Hislan said.

“No,” Zavahier refused. “The Sith trials are going to be hard, right? I’m not going without a weapon.”

“Do you even know how to use a blaster?” Hislan asked.

“Point it at whoever is trying to kill me. Pull the trigger,” Zavahier said. It was strange, really, that nobody had actually _told_ him that the trials would include attempts on his life. It was an assumption, but he felt it was a good one. Weak acolytes died during the trials, and those that survived became violent, aggressive Sith.

That was his future.

To become a killer, or to be killed.

“Alright, so you understand the basic principle,” Hislan conceded. “But wouldn’t you rather have a proper Sith weapon?”

Now _that_ caught Zavahier’s attention.

“A lightsabre?” he asked hopefully. He’d be more than willing to exchange Drassen’s blaster for one of those!

Hislan chuckled, and then shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You’ll get one of those if you pass your trials. But I did manage to get this for you instead. It amused Lord Yunash to give it to you,” he said, offering Zavahier a long, thin object wrapped in cloth.

Zavahier put the blaster down on the side table and took the bundle from Hislan. He pulled the fabric away to reveal a thoroughly unfamiliar weapon: roughly one metre long, it consisted of a hilt and a metal blade, and the weight of it felt odd, as though it was all concentrated in the hilt. He reached out to run his finger along the blade. The metal was blunt, and instead of slicing through his skin, it left a painful burning sensation in his finger. “Ow…”

“That is a Sith training sabre, balanced to mimic a real lightsabre. The blade is covered in tiny barbs filled with pelko bug toxins. The burning and paralysis will wear off soon,” Hislan explained.

And indeed, when Zavahier tried to wriggle his burned finger, he found he couldn’t do so. It was an odd sensation. The pain wasn’t too bad – he’d certainly endured worse – but being unable to move his finger at all was very strange.

Zavahier studied the training sabre for a little longer, and then he strode a few paces away from Hislan, giving himself enough space to give the weapon a practice swing. It cut through the air in a very satisfying way.

Then he thought about what this weapon would be used for. It was clearly intended to be non-lethal, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt people with it. Once he got to Korriban, he was likely going to have to fight – and perhaps even kill – in order to survive. He didn’t relish the thought. The memory of all the deaths he’d caused was still very fresh in his mind. One good night’s sleep didn’t erase the guilt, and it didn’t make him any less frightened of his own capacity for violence.

That made his new weapon a lot less exciting.

In the same wrapped bundle was the weapon’s sheath, which covered the toxin-coated blade so he couldn’t accidentally injure himself with it when he wasn’t using it. Zavahier sheathed the training sabre, and then clipped it to his belt. He looked down at himself again, still trying to process his new circumstances. None of this felt entirely real, and he still couldn’t help but wonder if this was some elaborate hoax pulled by Rawste in order to humiliate him. A hoax that had gone spectacularly wrong, given Rawste was dead. But still…

Wasn’t that more likely than Zavahier having the ability to use the Force? And to have been given his freedom?

Yet nothing happened to prove it was anything but reality.

And, odd though it seemed, Zavahier liked the training blade more than the blaster he’d taken from Drassen. It was hard to really put his finger on _why_ , except that the Sith weapon felt like something that belonged in his future, while the blaster represented the domination of his former owner. Even if he wasn’t entirely happy with what his future contained, actually _having_ a future still counted for something. So he allowed Hislan to take the blaster from the side table without complaint.

Now that Zavahier was ready – fully dressed and prepared for his new life – it was time to leave the medical centre. Hislan thanked SV-9A for its help, and Zavahier added his own thanks, a little belatedly. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. The droid had treated him with respect and kindness, and he’d appreciated it. But he felt a bit lost in all these new experiences. It was hard to think straight, and even harder to figure out what the expected behaviour was in this situation. He followed Hislan’s example simply because he didn’t know what else to do.

Once outside the hospital, Hislan led the way, with Zavahier at first taking an instinctive position several paces behind him, and only moving to walk by his side when he made a conscious decision to do so. It felt a little wrong, though; a part of him expected punishment that simply never came.

Freedom was going to take some getting used to.

It was only a short walk from the medical centre to their next destination, another building very much like the one they had just come from. While the exterior looked much the same – grey walls hung with red and black banners – inside things were quite different. The large reception area was darker and less inviting, and instead of being greeted by a cheerful droid eager to assist them, they were met by a flustered clerk, who directed them to an office at the end of a narrow corridor.

Inside the office was another clerk, who looked up from the computer terminal he was working at and motioned for Zavahier and Hislan to enter the room and sit down. Once they had done so, Hislan briefly explained the situation to the clerk, and finished with, “So now he needs to be registered as a full Imperial citizen, and an account set up for him in the Imperial bank.”

“Yes, that’s no problem at all,” the clerk said in a bored tone. He tapped a few commands into the computer, bringing up a screen filled with empty boxes. “Name?”

“Zavahier Khalla,” Zavahier replied.

The clerk typed a few symbols into the computer, and then paused. “How do you spell Khalla?”

Zavahier hesitated, reluctant to admit that he really didn’t know the answer to that. While Icallijo had taught him the very basics of reading – enough so that he would recognise various signs and labels he encountered during his labour as a slave – he had never had the chance to practice, nor to learn the correct spelling of his own name. He glanced uncertainly at Hislan, and then looked away almost immediately, instead focusing his gaze on the clerk’s desk, which was covered in stacks of files and datapads.

“I’ll try some of the more common spellings,” the clerk said. He sounded faintly disapproving, as though Zavahier _should_ know how to spell his own name; it was a common enough name on Caekarro. After a few attempts, he said, “Ah. Zavahier Ezerdus Khalla, born seventeen-eight-ten-BTC, to Karima Khalla, also a slave. No father listed. Is that you?”

Zavahier nodded. “Yes, that sounds right. My father is… was…” he paused, not liking to actually admit it out loud. “Denal Rawste.”

The clerk did not seem even remotely surprised. Nor interested, for that matter. “Your owner, of course. I’ve updated your records accordingly.”

The rest of Zavahier’s information was entered into the database without much difficulty; his hair and eye colour were obvious enough, and his height and weight had been provided on a datapad by SV-9A. His position in the Empire was that of a Sith acolyte, and he would be stationed at the Korriban Sith Academy.

“Until you’re twenty-one—” the clerk began.

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Not according to the Imperial Standard Calendar. Caekarro years are shorter than Imperial standard years. You’re twenty,” the clerk said. “And until you turn twenty-one, or you pass your trials, whichever comes first, you’re still a minor. Officially you’re now under the guardianship of the senior instructor at the Sith Academy, Lord Zash.”

There was a certain cold edge to the clerk’s voice that made it sound as though _unofficially_ , neither Lord Zash nor anyone else at the Academy would be looking out for Zavahier’s welfare. What a surprise.

The clerk finished entering information into the computer, and then handed Zavahier several small cylindrical objects. “These are your code cylinders.”

Zavahier took them, turning them over in his hands as he studied them from every angle, not really understanding what he had been given.

“They carry your identity and rank,” Hislan said softly. “They’re both proof of your identity and contain security codes appropriate to your new rank within the Empire.”

Zavahier nodded in understanding, pocketing the code cylinders. So that was it. He was now officially a real person, a citizen of the Sith Empire. He had rights. He wasn’t exactly clear on what those rights _were_ , but he knew he now had them.

He was also given a credit chip, which contained an advance on his first month’s stipend. It normally wouldn’t be due for several more weeks, but as he had no other finances to draw on, yet would still have expenses, Hislan negotiated for it to be paid early. The clerk hadn’t much liked it, grumbling about protocol, but Hislan had pointed out that Zavahier was Sith.

Apparently that meant different rules applied.

Zavahier was struck by the rather worrying thought that he really did have a lot to learn. The Sith were the leaders of the Empire, and while an acolyte was the lowest rank within the Sith Order, it seemed he nevertheless now outranked some _officers_. Once he passed the trials – because he didn’t want to consider the _other_ option – he would be part of the Empire’s leadership, all by virtue of powers he had never known he possessed. And apparently it wouldn’t even matter if he wasn’t twenty-one yet. The Sith lived by different rules.

It was a little difficult to get his head around that idea. He didn’t know how to be a leader.

No wonder so many people thought the idea of a slave becoming Sith was repulsive!

Who wanted to take orders from a former slave?

But another thought occurred to him, along a slightly different direction: what sense was there in a Sith automatically being considered a leader just because of the ability to use the Force? After all, Zavahier could hardly be the only Force-sensitive individual to know nothing about leadership.

So how did the Empire function?

Probably through the hard work of people like Hislan, SV-9A, and this frustrated clerk.

Zavahier silently thought this over as he and Hislan left the office building, and made their way through the city of Veah towards the spaceport. They stopped briefly at a supply depot, where Zavahier spent most of the credits he’d been given on a second set of clothing, a pouch of supplies for personal grooming, a personal datapad, and a backpack to put them all in. He’d looked at his credit chip rather unhappily, knowing it now held substantially less money than he’d started with, but Hislan reassured him that in addition to his monthly stipend, he’d likely have the chance to earn extra credits by running errands for higher ranking Sith.

“Sounds demeaning,” Zavahier said, associating the word ‘errand’ with the kind of menial labour he’d spent most of his life doing for Rawste.

It wasn’t long until they reached the spaceport, and Lieutenant Hislan checked him in, before attempting to show him where to go. Zavahier was probably quite lucky the officer was there, because the spaceport was a busy, bustling place, with hundreds of people coming and going. It didn’t take long for him to start feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all, and he’d have easily gotten lost without Hislan leading the way.

But there were ships!

Although the sight of the massive _Harrower_ -class dreadnoughts in a high orbit above Caekarro was familiar enough to Zavahier, he’d never actually been this close to any kind of space craft. Up close even the transport shuttles looked huge. He kept wanting to stop and watch them coming and going, just because he’d never had the chance to do so before, but Hislan hurried him on each time, reminding him that time was short.

“Yes, alright, I’m coming,” Zavahier grumbled irritably as he turned away from the view of a smaller ship with angular wings coming in for a landing. So far this morning had been more frustrating than anything else, with other people making a lot of decisions for him. He wanted to take the time to actually _enjoy_ a little bit of his freedom, before the Sith trials took over his life. He doubted there would be much time for fun on Korriban.

Hislan led him to the hangar where an Imperial transport shuttle was waiting. There were several groups of slaves loading the last crates of supplies into the cargo hold, while Zavahier was taken to the passenger berth inside. There wasn’t much room, and two rows of seats lined the walls; but Zavahier seemed to be the only passenger, as no one else was there.

“Right, this is where I leave you. The shuttle will take you up to the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ , which is heading to Korriban,” Hislan said.

For some reason, Zavahier had been under the impression Hislan would be going to Korriban as well, so the man’s farewell took him by surprise. And then he realised that Hislan had never actually said anything about coming with him, and he probably had duties of his own here on Caekarro. He’d seen Zavahier safely to the transport because Yunash had ordered him to, and had helped him out because…

What? Genuine kindness?

Or just following orders?

Zavahier decided it didn’t actually matter. He liked Hislan, and he knew that he could have just had his slave collar removed and been set loose to wander without purpose. Instead, he’d been given assistance with his first steps towards freedom. Just enough to keep him from getting _completely_ overwhelmed, but without coddling him. From here on out, the Empire would expect him to make his own way, to take what he’d been given and turn it into something greater.

So now it was time for Hislan to go, and Zavahier realised that this was exactly what needed to happen. He couldn’t rely on others during the Sith trials: he had to find his own strength, and he couldn’t do that if he had someone to help him.

“Thanks for all the help,” Zavahier said.

“It was no trouble at all. Good luck, Zavahier.”

And with that, Hislan departed, leaving Zavahier alone in his passenger cabin. It wasn’t long before the shuttle took off, climbing rapidly through Caekarro’s sky, and then docking with a much larger ship above. Zavahier wished there had been a window to look out of; the sight of Caekarro from above was probably thrilling.

Once the shuttle was docked with the larger transport ship, Zavahier disembarked, finding himself in a hangar that, like the spaceport, was bustling with activity. There were other shuttles, and a myriad number of Imperial officers were supervising a group of slaves, herding them towards some waiting pens. Zavahier stared at them, but he didn’t recognise any of their faces. The sight bothered him a little, though, so he turned away.

Even so, he wasn’t exactly sure where he was supposed to go. But it seemed his confusion must have showed on his face, because a private noticed him and walked over. “Are you lost, slave? Over there, in the third pen.”

“I’m a Sith acolyte. I’m going to Korriban,” Zavahier replied.

The private didn’t seem to believe him. “Uh huh. You were expecting that to work, were you, slave?”

“I really am an acolyte. Look, I’ve got a training sabre. And no collar,” Zavahier insisted.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” the private said. “You probably stole that weapon.”

“Right, and then I willingly boarded a shuttle knowing I’d just end up in a cage? You’re not very smart, are you?” Zavahier asked. Yet for all his insistence that he was definitely _not_ a slave, he really wasn’t sure how he was going to prove that he was telling the truth about being a Sith acolyte.

Well, that answer was obvious: just prove that he could use the Force.

So he raised his hand, trying to concentrate on the power within himself, and…

Completely failed to produce any lightning whatsoever.

The private snickered. “Nice try, slave. Go on, get in the cage. And give me that weapon.”

“No,” Zavahier snapped, taking a step backwards as the private reached out to take the training sabre from him. He didn’t much care for being laughed at just because he couldn’t call on his powers at will. Or for being ordered around like he was still a slave, for that matter. Rawste had been able to compel him to obey because there had been a shock collar around his neck. This _soldier_ , a man not much older than Zavahier was himself, had no such hold over him.

Yet he still thought Zavahier would follow his commands?

_No._

Nobody would _ever_ control him again.

And somehow _that_ had the effect he wanted. Not his refusal to do as he was told, but the _anger_ at being ordered around and laughed at. A surge of raw passion and determination. Purple sparks shot from Zavahier’s fingertips and struck the private.

The private’s laughter ended with a sharp cry of pain, and he recoiled from Zavahier. “Alright, alright. You’re a Sith. Right this way, my lord.”

Oh, so _now_ it was ‘my lord’?

Well, at least Zavahier now knew that Force lightning was a good way of…

Getting what he wanted?

Making people respect him?

Both, it seemed. That was good to know, he supposed, even if it was feeding right into that Sith reputation that he still felt rather uncomfortable with. He hadn’t _meant_ to shock the private. He’d just been trying to show that he could use Force lightning, not actually use it on a real person.

If people weren’t going to believe him when he told the truth, then what other choice was there?

Only then did Zavahier remember the code cylinder he’d been given. Maybe that would have been an easier – and less painful – way to prove his identity?

He would have to remember that next time somebody questioned if he really was Sith. He rather doubted this would be the last time someone mistook him for a slave.

Zavahier followed the private out of the hangar and down a long corridor. They passed both ship personnel and a few other passengers, as well as a small mouse droid carrying a message between different areas of the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang._ It chirped as it rushed past them, an alert to ensure nobody tripped over it. Before long, they reached the passengers’ quarters, and Zavahier was shown into a room containing a bunk and a small table.

“Make yourself at home, my lord. There’s a mess hall just down the hall if you need anything to eat, and feel free to ask 2R-C6 if there’s anything else you need. The journey to Korriban will take about three days,” the private said, before hurriedly excusing himself, apparently worried about receiving a second shock.

Zavahier began looking over the room. It was definitely rather plain, nothing like Rawste’s fancifully decorated estate in Veah… but on the other hand, it still looked more comfortable than anywhere Zavahier himself had ever been allowed to sleep. He sat down on the bed and ran his fingers over the sheets, enjoying their texture. He gave the mattress a little bounce too. Definitely a much nicer bed than he’d ever slept in before. Just by virtue of _being_ a bed, really.

Yes, Zavahier thought he was going to enjoy freedom. Or some aspects of it, at least.

The ship rumbled and vibrated as it began to leave Caekarro’s orbit, and Zavahier left his quarters to find the mess hall he’d been told about, hoping for a window to the outside. He was in luck; the mess hall had a small but perfectly serviceable window, so he stood in front of it, leaning forward so he could get a good view of the shuttle’s ascent. Already Caekarro was growing smaller, the planet a swirling mass of yellow, green and blue. A little grey smudge was all Zavahier could see of Veah.

The sky grew darker as the shuttle left the atmosphere, and soon it was in space.

Actual space!

He’d always wanted to go into space. To travel among the stars and see new worlds.

It was such a dark, inky black that Zavahier thought for a moment he’d be lost in it. But then he began to pick out the little pinpricks of light. Each one was a star. And many of them had planets. He realised that although he knew the names of a few other worlds out there, he couldn’t have pointed at a particular star and been able to identify exactly which one it was. Which one was Korriban? Or Dromund Kaas, the Sith Empire’s capital? Were all these stars just those in Sith space, or were some of them further way? Could he also be looking upon worlds owned by Hutts, or by the Republic?

For the first time in his life, Zavahier was able to appreciate just how _huge_ the galaxy was.

And beneath him, the world of Caekarro was growing smaller and smaller. Now it was a small multi-coloured sphere dangling in empty space, and Zavahier could almost imagine reaching out with his hand and grabbing it, like it was just a toy ball.

What would he do to Caekarro if he had the chance?

Free all the slaves, certainly.

Build himself a nice big palace.

Crush the greedy and corrupt slave owners like Rawste.

That thought excited him a little. And then sickened him. He’d had thoughts like it all his life. What slave didn’t dream of killing their master? But the fact that he actually had the power to do it now made those fantasies seem more… real. More savage. And Zavahier already had some very specific ideas about the kind of Sith he was going to be. He wasn’t going to torture and kill people. Not unless he had to. He was beginning to accept that he was probably going to have to kill other acolytes on Korriban. But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

What he _wasn_ _’t_ going to do was go on a rampage of destruction across the galaxy and let his power go to his head.

He wasn’t going to be _that_ kind of Sith.

Caekarro was now a tiny orb about the size of his thumbnail. And then something outside changed: the stars seemed to stretch out into thousands of thin parallel lines as the transport made the jump to hyperspace. Then everything Zavahier could see through the window was blue. Really, really blue. But that was fascinating too. Zavahier thought it was actually quite pretty. So he stayed where he was, watching the shuttle’s journey through hyperspace for almost a minute… until two covers slid in from the sides, shutting out the view of hyperspace.

A protocol droid, who introduced himself as 2R-C6, served him food and drink, which he consumed eagerly. Rawste had never fed his slaves much more than they needed to survive, and Zavahier had been deliberately left hungry on a regular basis, in the hopes that it would dull his energy and make him more manageable.

Yes, that had worked incredibly well, hadn’t it?

It had more often just served to make him irritable, and thus more likely to say something he shouldn’t.

So he ate a bit of everything, not knowing how to read SV-9A’s list of foods, and thus simply enjoying the chance to have a full stomach for the first time in his life. A few other people had drifted into the mess hall, and were now sitting at various tables, either working or chatting amongst themselves as they ate. In a corner, there was a young Sith pureblood with an aristocratic air, who seemed to be studying some kind of artefact. Zavahier was curious, but hesitated to go over; the Sith was pointedly ignoring him, purposely looking away and avoiding meeting Zavahier’s eye.

After Zavahier had eaten his fill, which didn’t take long – there was still a lot of food on his plate – he was left with the question of what to do next. Not having orders to follow was a new experience. There was a temptation to be lazy, just because he could. But then he considered where he was going. Sith training would be challenging. He should practice his Force abilities. Perhaps it would give him an edge over the other acolytes. Or at least reduce their advantage over him. And he was feeling a little more energetic now that he’d eaten, so he focused on a muja fruit, trying to will it to move. He knew moving objects the Force was within his limited array of powers, as he’d done so on several occasions. He wanted to see if he could do it consciously.

The fruit rolled over on the plate.

A little disappointing, but Zavahier wasn’t ready to give up yet. He tried again. This time it just sort of… wiggled slightly.

“Move!” he snarled at it, and perhaps in response to his frustration, the muja fruit lifted off his plate and then shot across the room.

“Sir!” 2R-C6 called out in alarm as it dodged sideways to avoid being struck by the projectile fruit. Its cry attracted the attention of several nearby people; the officers fell silent for several moments as they looked at both Zavahier and 2R-C6, before going back to what they were doing. There was some general eye-rolling and comments about childish behaviour. And remarks about how shameful it was that slaves were allowed to be Sith now. But nobody spoke up to tell Zavahier he _couldn_ _’t_ use the Force to throw fruit at protocol droids.

And that was… unexpected.

A feeling of mischief crept over Zavahier. With a bit more effort, he made the fruit turn in the air, flying at 2R-C6 once more. Again the protocol droid darted out of the way, most likely wanting to avoid getting sticky fruit juice all over its spotlessly clean chassis. But Zavahier wasn’t so easily thwarted, and he raised his hand, finding that it was easier to control the fruit’s flight if he directed it that way. He could even sense a faint tactile sensation in his fingertips through the Force, an echo of the rough texture of the fruit’s skin.

There was something… visceral about feeling the weight and texture of the fruit as he made it fly through the air, pursuing the droid all over the mess hall, before finally succeeding in splattering it over 2R-C6’s chest.

“Ha! I win!” he cried out triumphantly. It was a minor victory, all things considered, but it was exhilarating nonetheless.

“Yes indeed, well done sir,” the droid said. Even with his synthetically generated voice, Zavahier thought 2R-C6 sounded a little shaken to have become sport for a Sith, but was making the effort to play along and not cause offence.

That was probably wise, because Zavahier was certain his lightning could do a lot more damage to a droid than a fruit could.

One older officer watched all this with mild interest, and chuckled to himself as though amused at Zavahier’s playful antics.

On the other hand, the red-skinned Sith with the artefact just gave Zavahier an incredibly dirty look. There was a look of utter contempt in those eyes, and the implication was clear: Zavahier should try to behave with a bit more dignity. It was enough to make Zavahier think twice about using the Force to throw any more fruit at the protocol droid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Zavahier's age:
> 
> The Empire considers observing the Galactic Standard Calendar, based on Coruscant's solar cycle, to be completely beneath it, and so instead it uses a calendar based on the 312 day year of Dromund Kaas. As an 18 year old according to the Imperial Standard Calendar is only 15 years old by the 368 day Galactic Standard Calendar, the Empire set its age of majority at 21 Imperial years, the age at which it considers its citizens old enough to be considered adults. This comes out to around 17.8 Republic years.
> 
> Of course, Sith have their own rules, because they sometimes start training young and it's not unknown for an acolyte to pass their trials and become an apprentice before they've reached the age of 21. And who is going to tell a Sith he can't do something just because he's not old enough? Therefore, the tradition is that becoming an apprentice is accepted as an alternate "rite of passage" that marks a Sith as legally an adult.
> 
> Thus, throughout this fic, Zavahier will be thinking of himself as 20 years old, when by Earth standards, he's only 17.


	5. Liberty And Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier meets some future rivals, and learns a little more about his powers.

The first night spent on board the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ was a disturbingly lonely experience. Accustomed to sleeping surrounded by other bodies, being in a room all by himself reminded Zavahier of being confined in a solitary cage, even if the bed itself was comfortable. He would almost drift to sleep, only to wake moments later, rolling over in bed and burrowing deeper into the blankets, as if that would provide him with the warmth and closeness he missed. Yet he was alone, his former fellow slaves left behind as the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ carried him towards his new life.

The others wouldn’t want anything to do with him now anyway. The looks on their faces when they’d seen the powers he possessed had been clear enough. If he’d stayed, they would have been too afraid of him for those bonds to survive.

Zavahier couldn’t blame them for that. He was frightened of himself too. And his own thoughts worried him. The violence with which he’d earned his freedom was a heavy weight on his shoulders, a feeling of gnawing guilt for all the lives ended by his connection to the Force. Knowing that he would have to do such things again only made it worse. After taking nine lives – two of them by his own hand – he was not eager to repeat the experience, and without anything else to distract him, he worried about the trials he would face on Korriban.

What would being forced to kill, over and over again, do to him?

What kind of person would he become?

Would he still be able to hold onto his humanity throughout his Sith training?

Did Sith even _have_ a sense of right and wrong?

It was difficult to sleep with those questions running round and around in his head. After a few hours, Zavahier gave up entirely, and returned to the mess hall.

The ship’s daily cycle was not quite the same as Caekarro’s; what felt like the middle of the night to Zavahier seemed to be early morning to the rest of the crew, and the mess hall was much busier than it had been earlier. Breakfast had been served, and Zavahier helped himself to another meal, more because he _could_ than because he was actually hungry, before settling down at one of the few empty tables. Two meals in such quick succession felt like a thoroughly indulgent luxury, and one he was determined to enjoy even though he wasn’t hungry.

Zavahier wasn’t there long before he was approached by two other men, both heavily muscled and broad-shouldered, and unmistakably twin brothers. They towered over him, a little menacingly, but rather than starting an argument, one of them said, “You’re an acolyte too, right? Mind if we join you?”

They sat down before Zavahier could answer, and the one who had spoken introduced himself as Balek, and his brother as Wydr. Zavahier hesitated for a moment. Before being freed, he would have thought nothing of giving them his name. But deception and secrecy were part of being Sith, and now he had an opportunity to establish a new identity for himself.

“Yes, I’m an acolyte as well. My name is Ezerdus,” he said, hoping that Balek and Wydr hadn’t noticed his slight hesitation. While keeping the family name of Khalla was an important part of separating himself from both his father _and_ the Empire, the name ‘Zavahier’ just didn’t feel… ‘Sith-y’ enough. ‘Ezerdus’ – not a Caekarran name – sounded a little more befitting a Sith. A little more elegant and aristocratic, perhaps. His first name would be a secret for him alone.

“We’re from Balmorra,” Balek said as he began devouring his meal.

“Never heard of it,” Zavahier said with complete honesty. He picked less enthusiastically at his own breakfast, still rather full from his meal the night before. And when Wydr explained that Balmorra was a planet near the core of the galaxy, a member of the Galactic Republic until it had been conquered by the Empire some twenty years previously, Zavahier was none the wiser.

“We were part of the Balmorran resistance,” Balek said, clearly rather proud of this fact. “But we were captured. We’ve been slaves these last three years.”

“Until a Sith told us we were Force-sensitive, and shipped us off,” Wydr added.

There was a definite aura of bitterness around both of them. They clearly had no love of the Empire, and would not be going to Korriban if they’d had any say in the matter. They no more wanted to be Sith than Zavahier did. He could only assume that the resistance they spoke of was a rebellion against the Empire’s domination of their homeworld, much like the one that fought the Empire on Caekarro.

But Zavahier said nothing about his own origins; Caekarro was a remote world, and Balek and Wydr had no reason to know anything about it, and it was obvious from Zavahier’s appearance alone that he was a former slave. There was no need to draw even more attention to it, or bother them with information that didn’t matter.

“Have you used your Force powers much?” Zavahier asked instead, much more interested in where he stood in comparison to them with the Force than he was in comparing homeworlds and experiences with slavery. Learning of their powers would tell him a lot about his chances of surviving the Academy. He thought it was quite likely that Balek and Wydr would soon be his rivals, and their three years of slavery hadn’t greatly diminished their physical strength the way twenty years of it had affected him. And if they’d fought with Balmorra’s resistance, that meant they probably knew how to fight. If Zavahier was to gain an advantage over them, it had to be in his strength in the Force itself.

“Not really,” Balek replied. “We never really knew we had any powers. What about you?”

Now it was Zavahier’s turn to be proud, and he smiled, feeling oddly pleased with the fact that his powers were more advanced than theirs, even if he still couldn’t say he really _liked_ using the Force. If he _had_ to be a Sith – and it definitely seemed that he had very little choice in the matter – then he was determined to at least be a talented one. Watching the brothers intently to see how they reacted, Zavahier said, “I can make things move, and I can make lightning.”

Wydr didn’t seem to believe him, and regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Prove it.”

“Fine,” Zavahier said. He focused on a fried egg on Wydr’s plate, and after a few moments of concentration, during which Wydr watched him sceptically, the fried egg lifted into the air. And with a flash of vindictiveness, Zavahier took the opportunity to throw it right into Wydr’s face. He was getting tired of people not believing him.

Wydr spluttered indignantly, wiping the egg off his face and throwing it to the floor. Then he raised his fist, but Balek grabbed his arm, holding him back from hitting Zavahier.

“What the blazes did you do that for?” Wydr asked, lowering his hand but looking no less angry.

“I’m sure it was an accident, right?” Balek suggested.

“Yes, definitely,” Zavahier said. He was quite keen on not being punched in the face… and on an instinctive level, he knew that being less than honest was going to be an important survival strategy amongst the Sith. And, well, if people were going to disbelieve him when he told the truth, he might as well use lies to his best advantage. “I only discovered I could use the Force the day before yesterday. It’s still a bit hard to control.”

There was some truth in there, but it was coated in a little dishonesty, as he pretended to have less control of his powers than he actually had, and that the egg in Wydr’s face had been an innocent mistake.

“I’m sorry,” Zavahier added a moment later.

“Can you teach us how to lift stuff?” Balek asked.

Zavahier made a point of giving this some thought. He rather doubted he would be able to teach anyone else how to use the Force, given that he had very little idea of exactly how to use it himself. He had tapped into his power instinctively. He wasn’t in a position to instruct others in how to do the same. But he wanted Balek and Wydr to think he could.

“Alright, I’ll try,” he said. “In return, can you show me how to fight?”

Balek turned to Wydr, and they exchanged a look, before Wydr came out and said what they were clearly both thinking: “That’s not a great idea. You’ll break like a twig.”

“Let me worry about that,” Zavahier said. He would have to fight in order to succeed in the trials, and he thought it was better to practice now, with people who were willing to engage in some non-lethal sparring, rather than be unprepared. It wasn’t as though the prospect of fighting really excited him. He was actually rather uncomfortable with it, feeling that he’d experienced enough violence for a lifetime.

But he had to be realistic.

Zavahier knew where he was going, and what kind of things he would have to do.

“Sounds like a fair deal to me,” Balek said, holding out his hand to Zavahier. “You teach us to float stuff, and we’ll teach you how to fight.”

Zavahier took the offered hand and shook it, and then did the same with Wydr, the agreement made. The two brothers hurried to finish their breakfasts, but Zavahier left the rest of his meal untouched; while Balek and Wydr ate, he sought out 2R-C6 to enquire into whether there was a room they could use to train in. The protocol droid lamented that the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ lacked any training facilities, as it was only a transport vessel, but he offered the use of one of the empty cargo bays, which had enough space for three Sith acolytes to practice.

Once they had assembled in the cargo bay, Balek and Wydr overruled Zavahier when he suggested that they practice their sparring first.

“If we do that first, you’ll be too tired afterwards to teach us anything,” Wydr said bluntly.

Zavahier supposed Wydr was probably right about that, and since he also wasn’t in a position to force the issue, he had to accept that he’d been outvoted. Wasn’t democracy _fun_? So he stood in the middle of the cargo hold, with Balek and Wydr standing a short distance away, watching intently as he focused his attention on the pile of small objects they had taken from the mess hall: a bowl, several cups, and a handful of spoons.

At first he struggled to lift any of them, until he heard Wydr click his tongue disapprovingly. That spike of irritation with the other acolyte, combined with his own frustration at being unable to do this one simple thing, provided him with the power he needed. Both the bowl and several spoons lifted into the air, and were flung in several directions across the cargo bay.

“Okay, we know you can do it. But… can you explain _how_?” Balek asked.

Zavahier considered this, trying to find the right words to describe exactly how he was able to do these things. Why did it work sometimes, but not others? It took several moments for him to realise what the deciding factor was.

“It’s all about passion,” he said at last, speaking more for himself than for Balek and Wydr; somehow just saying it out loud solidified the idea in his mind, a singular truth that he now understood. Lord Yunash had mentioned it, of course, but he hadn’t fully understood it at the time. Now he did. Everything Zavahier had done with the Force had been driven by his emotions. He’d been angry at Rawste, and afraid of what Rawste would do to him, and from that had come bolts of lightning. Regret at throwing away the pebble had brought it back to his hand. Irritation with the private who mistook him for a slave, and at Wydr when he hadn’t believed Zavahier could consciously use the Force, had brought forth his powers.

_Every_ success had been driven by Zavahier’s emotions.

“It’s not enough to just want to move the object. You have to feel it.” Zavahier reached out again, focusing not on the desire to pick up one of the cups, but on his own emotions. In this instance, on the sense of pride that came from having figured it out. A warm, wonderful feeling in his chest, almost physical in the pure pleasure of it. The cup rose up off the floor, hovered for a few moments, and was then dropped back onto the floor…

Because Zavahier wanted to try something else.

Still holding onto that pride in his achievement, Zavahier tried to call on the other power he knew he possessed. And the sparks of lightning did indeed crackle over his fingertips. But it wasn’t quite enough to strike the cup. Unsatisfied, he lowered his hand. Apparently he didn’t have all the answers quite yet, and a dark cloud of frustration settled on him again.

It took another couple of moments, during which Zavahier was intensely aware of the fact that Balek and Wydr were still watching him expectantly, before he realised that his annoyance with himself was still an emotion he could use, and perhaps a much stronger one than pride, since it was much more familiar. Zavahier had spent most of his life in a state of frustration and anger. Such emotions came to him as naturally as breathing.

Instead of pushing the emotion aside, as he had always tried to do in the past – because acting on anger had always earned him pain and suffering at his owner’s hands – Zavahier let himself feel it. He shouldn’t shy away from it. His anger was what had given him the power to break free of Rawste’s control. Without it, his Force-sensitivity would never have been discovered. He would still be a slave. Or he would be dead.

And his anger had driven him to do horrible, terrible things. Acts that he would never forgive himself for. He had murdered two people, and directly caused the deaths of seven more just through the chaos his Force powers had created. The guilt was a very real thing, almost a physical presence in his mind, a constant reminder of the awful things he was capable of. As was the fear of what Sith training would force him to become. He’d been hiding from those emotions from the moment he’d been granted his freedom; they were negative, uncomfortable thoughts, and his strongest desire had been to bury them, and to avoid future situations that would remind him of them.

But now he realised that he’d been thinking about it the wrong way. Those emotions were a part of him. Yes, they were unpleasant. But they were the source of his power. And since his future would hold many more situations where he would be required to hurt and kill others, he needed to accept it, so that the anger, fear and guilt would empower him, and give him the strength to survive.

If he didn’t, then another Sith would kill him.

He shouldn’t deny his emotions. He shouldn’t fear them.

The realisation clicked into place, and Zavahier felt something inside him change. It was a subtle thing, as though a wall around his powers crumbled and fell away. It wasn’t so much that the inner spark within him grew stronger, but more that it became less restrained, and he realised that he had always been suppressing the power within him.

Out of fear of what Rawste would have done to him?

Or from fear of being discovered by the Sith?

Perhaps both.

It had taken a stressful and traumatic situation – the combination of confinement, starvation, numerous painful shocks, and the threat of death – to draw out and awaken the power within him. Now it was free, and he could use it without restriction. There was no longer anything to be gained from suppressing his power.

Zavahier struck the cup with a small bolt of lightning, much more easily than he had ever used lightning before, just by acknowledging all the emotions swirling within him. He hit the cup with another jolt. And again. And again. The bolts of lightning weren’t particularly impressive, being little more than tiny purple sparks, not even remotely comparable to the storm he had created on Caekarro. But they did what he wanted them to, responding to his commands and going exactly where he directed them. The feeling of _freedom_ that came from this was glorious. Zavahier tried not to think about the destructive uses to which his lightning could be put, and instead simply enjoyed the thrill of feeling such power flowing through him, knowing that it granted him control over his own fate.

Freedom!

For the first time, Zavahier felt that his liberty wasn’t just some formality. It wasn’t just a matter of complying with some law that the Empire had chosen to enforce. It was something he _possessed_. It was an almost physical thing. And it was _his_. And nobody would _ever_ be able to take it away from him.

If they tried…

Well, they would have to be more powerful than him in order to achieve it. And although he still didn’t know where he stood in comparison to other Sith, one thing was very clear: the number of people in the galaxy who had the strength to impact his freedom was very low. Even if every single Sith was more powerful than him – something he wasn’t willing to accept – that still reduced the people who had power over him from trillions down to… Exactly how many Sith were there? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he knew there weren’t many. Thousands, perhaps? He might be able to find out, once he reached Korriban.

“Wow!” Balek said. “How did you do that?”

Zavahier ceased zapping the cup – which was now looking rather scorched – and turned to Balek and Wydr, unable to resist smiling. “It’s all about passion,” he said, repeating his earlier explanation. “Emotions are power. And it feels _wonderful_. Try it!”

Both brothers seemed a little confused by Zavahier’s explanation, but they made an attempt at using the Force anyway. Yet the realisations Zavahier had made seemed beyond them. They stared at the collection of objects, concentrating hard – until Balek was straining so hard that he went red in the face – but still unable to will them into doing more than wiggle weakly on the floor. If Zavahier had to guess, he thought Balek and Wydr had never been put into a situation where they needed to actually use their powers; a Sith on Balmorra had sensed their potential, but that was all.

Wydr gave up first, and he gave Zavahier a hard, unfriendly look. “You’re not a very good teacher. You’re not explaining this very well at all.”

“Well, I’m _sorry_ I’m not an expert in something I’ve only been able to do for a day!” Zavahier responded heatedly. With the full realisation of his freedom, there was now no need to ever restrain his emotions. No one would ever have power over him again, so he would never need to hold back, cowering in fear of what punishment might be waiting in store for him.

“We can try again later,” Balek suggested, trying to end the argument before it began. He drew his training sabre, and motioned for Zavahier to do the same. “Fighting is a bit easier than using the Force. I’m going to come at you with my weapon, and you’re going to try to block it.”

He allowed Zavahier a few moments to draw his own training sabre, and he did his best to imitate Balek’s stance. He held the weapon in his right hand, copying Balek there was well, though for most tasks Zavahier preferred to use his left. His very first sparring session wasn’t the time to be experimenting with what would work best for him; he needed to mimic Balek and Wydr, who were much more experienced with this kind of thing.

Balek ran at him, and as he reached Zavahier, he swung his weapon at him. Zavahier responded swiftly, reacting on instinct; he felt as though he knew where the blade would be, and he raised his own weapon to block Balek’s. There was a harsh, metallic sound when the two weapons connected, but the force of Balek’s swing, combined with Zavahier’s lack of physical strength, resulted in Zavahier’s training sabre being knocked aside with ridiculous ease. Balek’s training sabre hit him on the arm; for a moment, Zavahier felt the toxins burn his skin.

And then his arm was paralysed. It fell limply to his side, and he dropped his training sabre.

Wydr gave a bark of laughter. “Guess you can’t be good at everything, huh?”

Zavahier couldn’t really argue with that. Yet he bristled with anger anyway, and took several steps away from Balek, mostly annoyed with himself for his own physical weakness. Though he hardly enjoyed Wydr’s mocking, either. But he’d known learning to use his training sabre would be challenging, especially when sparring against men who were more than forty centimetres taller than him. Balek probably weighed twice as much as he did. But to be disabled with a single slash of Balek’s training sabre was nevertheless embarrassing, and he felt the warmth as blood rushed to his face. Wydr laughing at him just made it worse.

It made Zavahier’s previous victory over Drassen all the more remarkable, and he had to consider the possibility that it had been purely down to luck. Something done in the heat of passion, where anger, fear and adrenaline had given him the strength to defeat a far more powerful opponent. Or the Force had helped him, maybe.

Fighting against Balek was a completely different matter. He knew he was in no real danger. It wasn’t just a matter of following his instincts. There were actual techniques he needed to learn.

After a few minutes, the numbness faded from Zavahier’s arm, and he crouched down to retrieve his training sabre. Then he readied himself. No matter what it took, he _was_ going to learn how to do this properly. When the ship reached Korriban, knowing how to use the training sabre correctly would make the difference between life and death.

“Again.”


	6. The Overseer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Tuk'ata's Fang_ arrives on Korriban, and Zavahier gets his first taste of Sith training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you CatBotSays and Freeza for your lovely comments. I really appreciate them. :)

Over the following three days, Zavahier spent a great deal of time enjoying his freedom. Some uncomfortable emotions lingered, and he knew they would always be a part of him. But now they no longer weakened him. He wouldn’t brood over them and worry about what the future held, not when he could _use_ that passion to fuel his powers. In an odd way, that made his guilt and loneliness easier to bear, and he truly enjoyed the feeling of growing a little more powerful each day. There was something so _easy_ about the way his emotions became raw power. It felt quite natural to Zavahier. Exhausting, at times, if he held onto a single emotion too long and let himself become drained. But the more he practised, the easier it became.

Perhaps a little _too_ easy. Sometimes his lightning got away from him, the power he wielded being more than he could fully control. There were more than a few scorch marks on the walls, and earlier that morning an errant blast of lightning had damaged out the ship’s sensors. The crew had been frustrated, as it had put them behind schedule, and the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ was now going to arrive at Korriban several hours late. The crew had not dared to say anything to Zavahier; he might have been a mere acolyte, but he was still a Sith, and they didn’t want to be the next target of a jolt of Force lightning. Balek and Wydr had thought it was kind of funny, but the other young Sith – whose name Zavahier still didn’t know – had just given him another of those disdainful looks.

That rankled. It wasn’t like he’d _meant_ to cause that much damage. Truth be told, he wasn’t even particularly sure _how_ it had happened; the bolt of lightning had gone from his hand, entered a power conduit, and then burst out of a console in another room, damaging the sensor array in the process. They’d had to drop out of hyperspace to make repairs before continuing the journey to Korriban. Raw power, it seemed, was not going to be a problem for Zavahier, but harnessing it was another matter entirely.

He could at least use Force lightning without burning his own fingers, and moving objects around was also becoming easier, though he was still restricted to small items. He’d tried to lift 2R-C6 after dinner last night, but had not been able to do so.

Where he struggled was the use of the training sabre; Zavahier, Balek and Wydr had taken the time to engage in numerous sparring matches each day, and the brothers definitely had a significant size and weight advantage over him. It was also hard to wield a weapon in his right hand, when he was so accustomed to using his left hand for most tasks, but Balek and Wydr found it impossible to spar with him when the training sabre was in his dominant hand. So Zavahier had decided to improvise: by zapping them with little sparks of lightning, he could slow them down or even completely incapacitate them long enough to hit back with his own training sabre, using his greater speed and agility to his advantage.

He didn’t feel particularly guilty about this. They complained about how much the lightning hurt, but being hit with Balek and Wydr’s training sabres wasn’t much fun either.

These were all useful lessons to learn, and though all three walked away from these sparring sessions rather battered and bruised, they maintained a good humour about it. Things would probably be a lot rougher at the Academy, so they needed all the practice they could get. And in the back of his mind, Zavahier was conscious of how much he was learning about Balek and Wydr’s strengths and weaknesses, getting ready for the day when they’d become his rivals.

He might have to kill them both one day. He was acutely aware of that fact. But he wasn’t sure _they_ realised it. Even though he’d told them what he expected the Sith Academy to be like, it wasn’t quite as real for them yet. So they practised and sparred, and it was fun because it wasn’t a matter of life and death.

The other Sith just looked on them with disdain whenever he walked in on their practice sessions, as if finding their efforts rather pathetic. Zavahier had pointed out that every acolyte had to start _somewhere_ , and if he had such a problem with them, perhaps he shouldn’t keep coming into their improvised training area, but it hadn’t made much difference. The Sith had just given him another contemptuous look, and refused to even dignify the statement with a response, as though considering Zavahier so far beneath him as to not even be worth speaking to.

As the ship approached Korriban, however, Zavahier held off on further experimentation with his abilities. He wanted to get a few hours of rest so he was alert and prepared for whatever awaited him at the Sith Academy. He once again sat by the window in the mess hall, nibbling on some food while he watched the blue blur of hyperspace fade away to the blackness of normal space.

Ahead was an orange and red planet. It didn’t _look_ like much, just a dry dustball, but as the transport drew closer, flying in a smooth arc between two orbiting dreadnoughts, Zavahier got the distinct impression that looks weren’t everything. He could _feel_ the power of this place, something that affected him on a much deeper level than just what his eyes could see. An immense dark energy that seemed to call to him, even from this distance. There was great Force power here, wasn’t there? He could sense it. No wonder this world was often said to be sacred to the Sith.

He wanted to explore every centimetre of it. Delve into its secrets. Learn absolutely everything there was to know about it.

Once the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ had entered orbit, Zavahier gathered his meagre belongings and made his way back to the hangar, where the shuttle was loading the passengers heading for the planet. There weren’t very many: just Zavahier, Balek, Wydr, and the other young Sith. During the short flight down to the surface of the planet, Balek had tried to engage the others in conversation, wondering aloud what Korriban would be like, but with the other Sith giving all three acolytes a harsh, imperious glare, Balek soon drifted into silence.

The shuttle landed, and the doors were opened; Balek and Wydr went out first, and Zavahier followed behind them, only to stop almost immediately when got his first proper look at Korriban. Large columns of orange rock rose around the landing platform, and beyond it was a steep-sided canyon fading into the distance. He thought he could see what looked like some ancient ruins, half buried in sand. He looked up, too, taking in the burnt orange sky and several large moons. He’d expected Korriban to be hot, based on its colour and terrain, but the air was cold and dry.

Everything just felt a little _heavier_ too, and Zavahier felt his heart beating more quickly to compensate. It seemed that Korriban had heavier gravity than Caekarro – and indeed heavier than the artificial gravity generated for the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_ too.

As he was contemplating this, the young Sith shoved past him, deliberately bumping his shoulder. Annoyed, Zavahier snapped, “Watch where you’re going!”

The Sith stopped for a moment, his back to Zavahier, and for a moment it seemed he would turn around to respond. But instead he just walked away, pausing briefly to speak to an older man standing at the edge of the landing platform, before heading into the building beyond. Balek and Wydr had also approached the man as well, but they stayed there, listening to him speak. There were three others gathered around as well, but Zavahier didn’t recognise them. They had presumably come to Korriban on a different transport. But they had a look that Zavahier recognised: they were all former slaves.

That struck him as a little odd. While Lord Yunash had explained that the law demanded Force-sensitive slaves to be freed, Zavahier hadn’t been expecting _all_ the other acolytes to be former slaves.

Trailing a little behind both the Sith and the twin brothers, Zavahier approached the older man just as he finished explaining something to the other five acolytes. They all looked a bit nervous, but as Zavahier approached, the man rounded on him instead.

“Ah, the last one to arrive is finally here. I hope you don’t think you’re special,” he said, his lips curling into a sneer. He was undeniably Sith; it wasn’t just in his bearing, but in the palpable aura of dark strength that surrounded him. He was obviously used to intimidating those around him with his presence alone… though his armoured robes and the lightsabre at his belt certainly contributed. He was human, with brown hair, blue eyes and a little beard perched at the end of his chin like a caterpillar. There was a diamond shaped red marking – possibly a tattoo – on his forehead, the lower point of which curled around beneath his right eye.

“It would be a shame if freedom went to your head, or if you somehow got the idea you didn’t need to pass your trials to become Sith,” the man continued, the derision clear in his voice. There was such vitriol in the way he spoke to Zavahier that the other acolytes got another all-too-familiar look on their collected faces: that of people who were glad _they_ weren’t the targets of it. Zavahier had seen it on the faces of his fellow slaves many times.

Everything the man said also gave Zavahier the distinct impression that he knew _exactly_ what Zavahier had gotten up to on both Caekarro and the _Tuk_ _’ata’s Fang_. But Zavahier wasn’t intimidated; if the man knew, it was because that other Sith had told him. Nothing mystical there. Maybe he _should_ have been more afraid of the man than he was, but the man’s behaviour reminded him of Rawste; he recognised Zavahier’s strength and aimed to knock him down a peg or two.

It wasn’t going to work, though.

“I know I need to pass the trials. And I _will_ ,” Zavahier said firmly.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the man responded. “I am Overseer Harkun, and Lord Zash has tasked me with sorting through you refuse to find one worthy of being her apprentice, and I intend to do just that. You’ll have to prove yourselves to _me._ ”

Ooh.

The name of Lord Zash was familiar. She was the instructor who now had legal guardianship of him, wasn’t she?

Well, becoming the apprentice of the Academy’s _senior_ instructor definitely had an appeal. Nobody earned that kind of position without both having a lot of skill _and_ being good at passing that knowledge on to others.

“Don’t get all sentimental on us now. We’ve only just met,” Zavahier said, speaking with deliberate disdain for Harkun’s venom. He’d learned through his dealings with Rawste that sometimes, showing he _wasn_ _’t_ bothered by it was the best way to handle it. And he didn’t think it would be any different with this man. Some of the other acolytes visibly winced, but Zavahier didn’t care; if they wanted to walk on eggshells around Harkun, terrified of what he might do to them, that was their business.

The Overseer knew he was being mocked, though, and replied coldly, “I won’t.”

Then he turned back to the other acolytes, and they all stepped back, their fear of Harkun so intense that Zavahier could practically feel it pouring off them. But Harkun made no move to punish them for Zavahier’s insolence, and merely said, “Now the rest of you gutter trash already know your trial. Get going while I bring our latecomer up to speed.”

Four of them, including Balek and Wydr, seemed grateful for the chance to escape Harkun’s wrath, and immediately walked away. The girl, however, held back, looking at Zavahier.

“Watch your back, friend. And don’t worry. It’ll be alright. Harkun can’t kill us all,” she said, attempting to reassure him. She probably thought he was actually as frightened of Harkun as she was.

Well, maybe he was afraid. But that wasn’t going to stop him.

“We can take him. I’ll attack from the front, you attack from behind, and we’ll see how he fares,” Zavahier suggested in a low voice. It was actually a joke, but said in such a deadly serious tone of voice that the girl didn’t realise it. Her face blanched, and she stepped back from him a little, apparently almost as frightened of him as she was of Harkun.

That suited Zavahier just fine. He was starting to develop a feel for how he wanted to deal with his fellow acolytes, and other Sith as well. And the Empire as a whole. Clearly the fact that he had once been a slave meant he would always be regarded with contempt. It didn’t surprise him, not in the slightest, but it was somewhat tiresome. It bothered him a little, too, because he was learning enough about his own strength to know that he _was_ powerful enough to complete the trials and become Sith.

Rather than letting his fellow Sith see that their contempt bothered him, he would answer it with plenty of derision of his own. It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of it to spare. There was something about slavery that fostered a sense of cynicism about the galaxy _and_ all the people in it.

And some instinct told him that concealing his true emotions beneath a cool disdain for those around him would serve him well.

“Uh… yeah. Looks like you can handle yourself,” the girl said, hurrying away.

“Are you quite done, slave?” Harkun asked. “Now, here’s your trial: there’s a hermit named Spindrall who lives in the tomb of Ajunta Pall in the Valley of the Dark Lords. Spindrall is a lunatic, but Lord Zash sees him as some kind of prophet. Once you find him, he will test you.”

“Sounds fun,” Zavahier commented dryly, and even _he_ wasn’t sure how much of that was sarcasm, and how much was a genuine statement of how he felt. A real challenge for his abilities would be useful, definitely; Balek and Wydr hadn’t really been able to keep up with him despite the fact they both had a significant physical advantage over him. But on the other hand, how much fun could crawling around in a tomb really be? Yes, he would learn a lot, but he wasn’t sure it would actually be _enjoyable_.

But he was hardly going to let Harkun know that.

“There, you know your task. Don’t keep Spindrall waiting, slave,” Harkun said, and Zavahier took that as the dismissal it was. It seemed that regardless of his status as an acolyte, Harkun was never going to see him as anything but a slave.

Prickling a little with indignation at Harkun’s derision, Zavahier left the landing platform and went into the spaceport, following the route the other acolytes had taken. He went up a flight of steps, then turned a corner and climbed another, before going out through a door and onto another raised platform. He slowed, and then stopped. His eyes were immediately drawn to the huge pyramid at the far end of the valley, several kilometres away from his current position, looming over the whole valley and casting a vast shadow. The sun was perfectly framed behind the tip of the pyramid in a way that _had_ to be deliberate; this temple must have been built on that spot for that very purpose.

The sides of the valley were lined with large statues of ancient Sith, and a number of red and black banners bearing the Imperial crest hung from the cliffs. These were much like the ones he had seen around the city of Veah, but much larger, hanging the full length of the cliffs and visible even from this distance. These banners, a celebration of Imperial might and dominance over Korriban, marked this world as truly being a part of the Empire in a way that Caekarro simply wasn’t.

Caekarro had been conquered by the Empire over thirty years ago, but still maintained a degree of stubborn independence amongst its people, and though he had born into slavery, a part of Zavahier had always seen himself as Caekarran. He held onto that now, determined to maintain some self-sufficiency from the Empire that had laid claim to his power. He may now be in the heart of the Sith Empire, and as Sith, he would certainly be expected to use his strength to benefit the Empire.

But it would never _own_ him.

Zavahier pulled his eyes away from the furthest reaches of the valley, and focused instead on the area immediately in front of him. That had to be his highest priority right now: figuring out where he was supposed to go, and locating Spindrall.

The bottom of the valley was filled with ruins, as he had seen when he’d first landed. Many of them appeared to have collapsed entirely, and Zavahier hoped none of these were the tomb of Ajunta Pall, as excavating them was certainly beyond his abilities. He didn’t have any idea where Ajunta Pall’s tomb was – actually, he didn’t really know who Ajunta Pall was, save in the vaguest idea that he was obviously a Sith important enough to warrant a special tomb – but a bit of exploration would hopefully lead him in the right direction.

A set of stairs took Zavahier down from the platform, and he soon realised that the immediate area was entirely enclosed by the cliffs. This limited his options, but not in a bad way; if there were only a few places he could go, it meant he couldn’t get lost. As he stepped out onto the red sand, it only took a few seconds for him to locate the footprints left behind by the other acolytes, and with no better idea of where to go in mind, he followed them.

It didn’t take long for Zavahier to find what had to be the right tomb. The trail of footprints descended deeper into the Valley of the Dark Lords, leading right towards one of the nearest ruins, which was somewhat larger and more impressive than the smaller ones surrounding it. This _had_ to be the tomb of Ajunta Pall. Unless all the other acolytes were wrong. Or lost. In fact, he really _shouldn_ _’t_ simply assume the others had made the right choice in coming here, when it was entirely possible that they had all simply followed each other.

So Zavahier paused in his steps and turned to look around him. There was another large tomb to his left, but when he went closer to investigate, he found that although the entrance was open, he couldn’t get more than ten metres into the tomb before coming upon a pile of large rocks blocking his path. The other similarly sized tomb nearby was also inaccessible.

He returned to the tomb the other acolytes had gone into. It had to be the right one, but at least now he knew that for himself, rather than trusting that the other acolytes had got it right. He already knew Balek and Wydr weren’t the greatest thinkers in the galaxy, and he had to assume himself to be smarter than the others as well.

Curious, but also somewhat apprehensive, Zavahier took his first step into the tomb of Ajunta Pall.


	7. Fun With Slugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's important to stop and smell the explosives.

The air inside the tomb of Ajunta Pall had a thick, musty odour, and the stone walls were cracked and crumbling. In some places they started to lean forward, on the verge of collapse, with large metal struts used to prop them up. Knowing that the whole tomb was only prevented from caving in by the Empire’s determination to preserve it seemed to heighten the sense of danger. Zavahier could almost _feel_ the weight of rock above him.

There was definitely something oppressive about the place, too. A kind of dark energy, so palpable that it made the hairs on Zavahier’s arm prickle. He could sense that this mission – this _quest_ – wouldn’t be as simple as walking down a few corridors and exploring the rooms until he found Spindrall. This was a trial, which by definition meant it was supposed to be difficult. It would hardly be a valid test if everyone could succeed, would it? So he moved with caution, half expecting some kind of ambush.

The other acolytes were nowhere in sight, and there were no more footprints to follow. But how large could the tomb possibly be? He didn’t _need_ a trail left by the other acolytes. He could explore the tomb and find Spindrall on his own.

But Zavahier didn’t get far from the entrance before reaching a barricade made of metal crates, behind which a few heavily armoured soldiers were crouching. Another one was lying nearby, but he was obviously dead in a pool of his own blood; his armour had been torn open by something with large claws. Zavahier could recognise an animal attack when he saw one.

The commanding officer saw Zavahier looking them over, and he approached. “Excuse me, acolyte. Sergeant Cormun, Fifth Infantry Company, Korriban Regiment. Can I—can I talk to you?” he asked, hesitating a little as he made the request. He was an older man with a weathered face and the look of an officer who’d seen and done a lot of things over the years. His caution in addressing Zavahier seemed out of place.

Unless he had reason to fear the Sith?

Zavahier considered the man’s request for a moment, and then nodded. “Alright. Make it quick, sergeant,” he said. It wouldn’t do any harm to see what the man wanted. Being treated with respect by men who wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him just a few days previously was still a bit disconcerting, but it certainly made him more willing to listen than if the man had simply started barking orders. Zavahier would not be commanded… but he would concede to being persuaded.

“Of course. You’re one of the slaves Harkun brought in on the last transport, right? Here to prove yourself to the bloodthirsty overseers?” Cormun asked, his tone of voice suggesting he had some experience of dealing with Sith… and of seeing acolytes entering the tombs for their trials.

But perhaps not returning?

“Prove myself or die, apparently,” Zavahier commented dryly.

“Well, here’s your chance to not only show off for the overseers, but start building ties to the Imperial military, as well,” Cormun said.

There was no arguing with that logic. While he was sure that Harkun would be annoyed if he was delayed because he stopped to help out these soldiers, Zavahier already knew _nothing_ he did was going to impress the overseer. And having someone in the military owing him a favour might just be useful one day.

“So what do you have in mind?” Zavahier asked.

“I’m here commanding a hard target mission to exterminate K’lor’slugs in this tomb. They’re… horrific things. Mouths bigger than your head. I’ve lost three squads of good men fighting them. They come in packs—they just… they’ll swallow a man whole,” Cormun said.

“Sounds like you need a new strategy, then,” Zavahier replied, thinking it a little odd that the man needed a former slave to explain that to him.

Well, more accurately, a Sith acolyte.

Just one with very little experience of the galaxy.

Yet Cormun did seem to be looking to him for… something.

“Exactly. Look, we—I’ve identified the enemy’s weak spot, but it’s not easy to get at. The damn K’lor’slugs breed so fast there’s no way to wipe them out conventionally. So we started targeting their egg chambers. They went insane. We managed to get explosives to all of the egg chambers, but the K’lor’slugs were all over us before we could detonate them,” Cormun explained. “We can’t do it without you. You have a tactical advantage my soldiers don’t: the Force. That makes you worth a dozen normal men.”

Zavahier spent a moment considering this, recognising the attempt at flattery for what it was. It felt faintly ridiculous, a group of muscular and experienced soldiers looking to _him_ to get something done. Just walking around in Korriban’s heavy gravity felt like hard work, and even this short walk from the spaceport to the entrance of the tomb had left him breathing heavily from the exertion. Yet there was something _nice_ about being seen as useful, even essential to the mission’s success.

“Oh alright then,” he conceded, sounding like the man’s words had succeeded in winning him over. “I guess I can take a look.”

It wasn’t that the respect and flattery had worked, or even that he felt particularly predisposed to being helpful. It was a combination of having already decided the Fifth Infantry Company might be useful in the future, and something inside him that thought setting off some explosives might be fun. But Zavahier wasn’t going to sound _too_ enthusiastic about it; he wasn’t a slave anymore, and he didn’t want anyone to start getting the idea that they could order him around.

Cormun gave him a datapad detailing the process for setting off the charges, which Zavahier stared at blankly for several moments, wondering how best to explain that he could barely read a word of it. “I don’t have time to study this. Just show me one of the charges, so I can see how it needs to be done,” he said, deciding that a show of impatience was better than creating a reputation for being the Sith that couldn’t read.

The soldier nodded his agreement and retrieved a spare bomb from one of the nearby crates. “This button, then this button, and then these two to set the countdown. You’ll want at least thirty seconds delay to give yourself time to get clear of the explosion. And don’t underestimate those K’lor’slugs, sir. They’re… they’re smarter than they look,” Cormun warned as Zavahier went through a little gap in the barricade, heading deeper into the tomb.

He did have to wonder where the other acolytes were. Had Cormun enlisted their help as well? The man hadn’t mentioned any of the others, so perhaps not. Zavahier didn’t know any of them, except Balek and Wydr, who both wanted to go home more than anything else. If the others were similar, maybe that made them less interested in helping out the Fifth Infantry. Maybe they wished only to survive the trials. Zavahier’s ambition was stronger than that; he didn’t plan on merely surviving. He was going to excel, whether Harkun liked it or not. Being anything less than the most powerful acolyte just felt wrong to him.

And that meant helping the soldiers with their K’lor’slug problem.

Zavahier’s progress through the tomb was uneventful… for all of a few minutes. And then came the scuttling sound, like many legs moving through the darkness. He _sensed_ the creature’s approach a fraction of a second before it pounced, and he ducked, allowing the thing to leap right over him. Then he twisted around to face it, pulling out his training sabre.

The K’lor’slug had a long, serpentine body, a huge number of legs, and a massive circular mouth lined with rows of fangs. It had no discernible eyes, which immediately ruined Zavahier’s initial plan of aiming for them first.

Cormun had called them ‘horrific’, but… Zavahier kind of liked them.

But then, he’d always liked bugs. All those scuttling legs, beady little eyes, and expressive feelers… Insects were definitely the most interesting creatures in the galaxy, as far as Zavahier was concerned. An ant infestation in the slave cages had been deeply fascinating, until one of Rawste’s men had exterminated them all. Zavahier’s attempt to save one of them and keep it as a pet had ended with Rawste deliberately squashing it, just to be spiteful.

Still, he had to admit, as insects went, K’lor’slugs were pretty intimidating.

The beast snarled and lunged at him again.

Zavahier dodged sideways, and swung his training sabre at the nearest limb, some kind of arm that ended with a vicious looking claw. The blade wasn’t really suitable for cutting, so instead of severing the K’lor’slug’s arm, it left a burned score in the beast’s exoskeleton. But the K’lor’slug screeched in pain and the limb fell limp.

It was good to know the toxins in the blade worked on K’lor’slugs too.

Zavahier swiped at it several more times with the sabre, striking at as many legs as he could. It lurched sideways, snapping its jaws at him. But dodging the now incapacitated K’lor’slug was easy, and Zavahier leapt backwards, widening the gap between him and the animal. Although the beast was indeed smarter than it looked, it wasn’t intelligent enough to compare to fighting with a human. _Balek_ had been more devious in combat than this. The K’lor’slug lacked any subtlety whatsoever, and Zavahier found predicting its movements easier than he had expected.

But he couldn’t kill the thing with just the training sabre. The whole _point_ of the weapon was its non-lethality.

The solution was obvious.

He had killed with the Force once before, and he could do it again. At least it wasn’t a human this time, but a simple dumb beast. Not that he relished killing something that he found fascinating, of course.

Zavahier raised his hand and a small bolt of lightning left his fingertips. All he had to do was remember what it had felt like to kill Rawste. That combination of anger at Rawste and disgust with himself provided him with that spark of strength.

The K’lor’slug collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, and green drool seeped out of its open mouth.

Before Zavahier had the chance to enjoy his victory, however, several more K’lor’slugs came out of the walls and swarmed towards him. Three of them were the same size as the one he’d just killed, but the fourth was a lot larger.

So these little ones were just juveniles.

Wonderful.

With four K’lor’slugs scuttling closer, Zavahier couldn’t afford to stand still. After all the sparring with Balek and Wydr, he knew where his strengths lay, and it wasn’t in meeting a bigger, stronger foe head on. It was in _not_ being there to take the blow.

So he leapt to the side to avoid the talons of the largest K’lor’slug. Then swiped at one of the smaller ones with his training sabre. The force of the blow was enough to knock it over, and it rolled onto its back, wriggling its many legs. With his arm extended after swinging the blade, Zavahier couldn’t avoid the claw of one of the other small ones, which sliced across his forearm. He yelped and pulled away, narrowly dodging a bite from the largest one.

He just couldn’t keep track of all of them at once. And Korriban’s heavy gravity made each movement much harder work than it ought to have been. It seemed like wherever he turned, there was an angry K’lor’slug trying to claw him, bite him, or…

Vomiting foul smelling green stuff at him.

Ew.

Apparently they could do that.

And he did _not_ want to get covered in K’lor’slug drool.

“Back off!” he snarled at them angrily. He was cornered, surrounded, annoyed at them for vomiting at him. He wanted them to just _go away_ already!

And they did.

Well, it was more like they were _thrown_ backwards, pushed away from him by sheer Force power. The biggest one was hurled against the wall, before falling to the floor, stunned by the impact. So was one of the smaller ones. The other two little ones flew further with no solid objects to get in the way.

Zavahier pressed his advantage, first blasting the largest one with Force lightning before it could get up and attack him again. A second, weaker shock was sent at a smaller K’lor’slug that had recovered from the surge of Force power and started to charge at him again.

Now there was just two K’lor’slugs.

Wait, just one. The small one that hit the wall wasn’t moving at all. It must have been killed by the impact. The last remaining K’lor’slug was scuttling towards him, dragging several legs that were bent at the wrong angle. That made it slow. Zavahier didn’t hesitate to deliver a final bolt of lightning. The K’lor’slug fell to the floor.

And Zavahier stood in the middle of the dead K’lor’slugs, panting from the exertion. Korriban’s heavy gravity made all that leaping and dodging and sabre-slashing a lot of hard work. It was probably a good thing electricity wasn’t affected by gravity, or he’d have _really_ been in trouble.

That struck him as funny, and he chuckled to himself, leaning against the wall of the tomb to allow himself a minute to catch his breath.

Once he was ready, he moved on again, pressing deeper into the tomb. He passed a dead K’lor’slug, noting the pockmarks in its armour; it had been killed by Sergeant Cormun or one of his men. A different dead K’lor’slug looked as though it had been blasted with lightning, so one of Zavahier’s fellow acolytes was undoubtedly responsible for that. And then, in a puddle of brownish-green fluid, he found the almost completely digested remains of a person; little remained apart from the bones and a few stringy strips of flesh.

So that was what happened to someone after they were swallowed by a K’lor’slug.

Zavahier was about to move on, having made the decision to not allow himself to be eaten, when he spotted a device nearby. Dropped by the man that had been eaten, or perhaps one of his companions? Zavahier picked it up and studied it, turning it over in his hands as he tried to figure out what it was. In the process, he pressed one of the buttons, and a small blue hologram appeared, a recording of the dead soldiers’ orders.

It detailed Imperial Edict 936: mercenaries were looting the tomb, stealing artefacts, and deadly force had been authorised to recover the artefacts. And also to teach the mercenaries a lesson for daring to steal things that rightfully belonged to the Sith.

And there was hazard pay, which could be claimed from Sergeant Rikel.

Zavahier pocketed the device, thinking that if he happened to run into these mercenaries while he was here, then at the very least retrieving those artefacts would be worthwhile. Could he claim that hazard pay if he did the dead man’s job? Hazard pay sounded like it might be a lot of credits, which he’d never had before. Nor artefacts, for that matter.

Definitely worth considering.

Once he’d found Spindrall. And blown up the K’lor’slug egg chambers.

This was turning out to be quite an adventure, wasn’t it?

But he had to admit he was having fun. Sure it was physically taxing, and there definitely was a slight worry that something down here would kill him. But he’d never been able to do _anything_ like this before. The risk to his life just made it more exhilarating.

He felt so _alive_.

Like he never had before. A single day of this was better than all the years of slavery. If he died here, it would be because of his own failure, rather than the selfish whims of his owner.

There was a side chamber a little way ahead, and Zavahier approached it cautiously, peering around the wall to see if he could see inside without being noticed. He was pretty sure there were more K’lor’slugs around here, and he didn’t want to be ambushed again.

Sure enough, there was a particularly large and fat K’lor’slug in the chamber; and since it was surrounded by what looked like several hundred eggs, Zavahier assumed it was a breeding female. He watched a little longer, trying to pick out the locations of the explosives that had supposedly already been placed there. The lighting wasn’t very good, but after a few moments he could make out the angular shapes sitting amongst the spherical eggs. More than that, he could _feel_ that they were there, as though the near darkness didn’t matter to the Force. Large canisters were spread out across the egg chamber, all connected to a single control box; the shapes were too angular to be K’lor’slug eggs. These were what Zavahier was aiming for.

But first he had to deal with the mother K’lor’slug. It was safe to assume she wouldn’t be happy if he just strolled in there and blew up her offspring.

At least it was only _one_ K’lor’slug this time.

Probably.

Zavahier crept around the corner, moving slowly into the egg chamber. He didn’t think he’d be able to take the K’lor’slug by surprise, but if he could just attack her before she attacked him, it would definitely make things easier. She had her back to him, and her entire body convulsed, pushing another egg out of the end of her tail. Without hesitation, Zavahier blasted her in the back with as large a barrage of lightning as he could call upon. The female K’lor’slug crumpled to the floor, dead before she even knew what was happening.

Waiting a few moments to ensure there weren’t any more K’lor’slugs coming, Zavahier went into the chamber. He stepped around the corpse of the mother slug, and studied the control box for the explosives, comparing it to the device Cormun had shown him. He set what he believed was a countdown of thirty seconds by pressing the timer button several times until the display showed what looked like a suitably high number, and then pressed the button to activate it.

And then he fled the egg chamber at a run. Although he knew the explosion wouldn’t be enough to collapse the whole tomb – because that would kind of defeat the point of targeting only the K’lor’slugs, wouldn’t it? – he still didn’t want to get caught in the blast. Only once he was back out in the main corridor did he turn and look back. Just because he wanted to watch the detonation.

It did not disappoint. With a loud _boom_ that shook the entire tomb, the canisters exploded, bursting into bright flames that consumed the eggs surrounding them. The fire spread from egg to egg, as if they were coated in something flammable. Maybe they were; a lot of the eggs were still damp from being freshly laid, and the body of the K’lor’slug also caught fire.

Zavahier couldn’t help but grin. Explosives were fun!

His enjoyment of the destruction didn’t last long. The force of the explosion in the egg chamber had summoned all the K’lor’slugs who heard it, and they were scuttling rapidly towards him. Zavahier readied his weapon again, and prepared to send a bolt of lightning into their midst. There were a _lot_ of them, though, much more than the group of juveniles he’d killed earlier.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to fight alone. There were heavy footsteps coming from behind him, and Zavahier glanced over his shoulder to see Sergeant Cormun running towards him, followed by other members of the Fifth Infantry Company. They opened fire on the mass of angry K’lor’slugs, and emboldened by the backup, Zavahier joined in, using his lightning in place of blaster bolts.

One large K’lor’slug managed to push its way forward, ignoring the rain of blaster fire. It raised its massive talons to tear at one of Cormun’s men. Reacting instinctively, Zavahier gave the creature a massive push with the Force, sending it slamming into the wall. It was briefly stunned, and lay on its side, its limbs twitching but otherwise not moving. The soldiers took the chance to fire their weapons into its exposed underbelly.

“Thanks, sir!” said the man whose life he’d saved.

A little surprised at the man’s gratitude, simply because he hadn’t been expecting it, Zavahier just shrugged and went back to blasting K’lor’slugs with lightning. But he was enjoying himself all the more now that he knew the soldiers appreciated his presence amongst them. Oh, he knew he would always stand apart from men like this, because that was the nature of being Sith, but right at this moment, after Harkun’s utter contempt for him, the soldiers’ acceptance was rather enjoyable. It didn’t seem to matter that he had once been a slave. It was the power he wielded _now_ – and how he chose to use it – that mattered.

Soon enough, the swarm were all dead, and Sergeant Cormun approached Zavahier and said, “Outstanding, sir! I heard the explosions when you set off the charges, and guessed the K’lor’slugs would go nuts. There are a few more egg chambers deeper in the tombs, so we’ll follow behind you and clear out the adults after you destroy the eggs. We’ll have this infestation under control by the end of the day!”

The other soldiers seemed pleased, and a few of them smiled at Zavahier, a gesture that he returned a little uncertainly. He had never before been surrounded by so many people who approved of him, but apparently saving that one man’s life had been enough to prove that he was…

What?

Not like other Sith?

Perhaps.

Pleased that everything had gone well so far, and feeling confident as a result, Zavahier decided to continue as he had begun. “Alright, then. I’ll find the remaining egg chambers, and then we’ll destroy the K’lor’slugs together,” he said, emphasising the fact that this was a team effort.

Zavahier had had enough of a rest to catch his breath, and so he set off once again, heading deeper into the tomb in search of the next egg chamber. It required a certain amount of trust, that the soldiers would indeed follow a short distance behind and help him kill the adult K’lor’slugs. But he knew it was in their best interests too; without him, they couldn’t succeed at all.

And wasn’t that just a lovely thought?

Zavahier, the son of a slave and a Republic traitor, was indispensable.


	8. The First Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier completes the first trial on the road to becoming Sith.

There were three other chambers within the tomb that had been taken over by the K’lor’slugs. Zavahier located each one, killed the K’lor’slug queens as they laid their eggs, and then set off the explosives. It could hardly be described as easy work, especially when each explosion summoned dozens of K’lor’slugs to attack him. But with Sergeant Cormun and the other soldiers following him through the tomb, the mission was successful. He couldn’t help but feel that he had done fairly well at this first attempt at leadership.

That was what Sith did, wasn’t it? Lead.

Well, admittedly, he hadn’t really had to do very much in the way of actual commands. The soldiers knew what they were doing, and didn’t need any instruction from him beyond the matter of timing. But still, they were following his lead, not the other way around.

At the end of it, Sergeant Cormun offered his hand. “If you ever need the Fifth Infantry Company, get in touch, sir,” he said, with every sign of making a genuine offer.

“Thank you,” Zavahier said, shaking the man’s hand and feeling thoroughly bemused by the respect he’d been shown. A credit chip was pressed into his hand, his share of the pay for the mission. He turned to leave. The soldiers were going to sweep the nearby chambers for any straggling K’lor’slugs, while Zavahier needed to press deeper into the tomb in search of Spindrall. Before he’d gone more than a few paces, he turned back to Cormun. “Do you know which chamber the hermit Spindrall uses? Can you direct me to it?”

“Of course, sir. Follow the main corridor, straight through the middle of the tomb, then it’ll turn to the right, and then back around on itself. Spindrall’s chamber is the big one on the left,” Cormun said, not even hesitating to give Zavahier the directions he needed. “Oh, and good luck, sir.”

Zavahier thanked him again, and then set out. With so many of the K’lor’slugs now dead, and the remainder being engaged by Cormun’s men, his passage through the tomb was somewhat easier. He couldn’t stop to rest, of course, but with no more fighting, he could at least walk at an easy pace without worrying too much about an ambush.

He could actually _sense_ that he wasn’t in any danger, too, something he perceived through the Force rather than with his eyes or ears. It was a rather odd sensation, really, just _knowing_ something to be true without having any tangible evidence of it. What was interesting was the way that necessity drove him to improve. Having this sense of his surroundings, knowing that danger was approaching slightly before it actually reached him, and even drawing on his emotions to make his lightning stronger; all of these things were done because he _had_ to be able to do them. Without that, he would die.

That was how he kept himself moving, even though doing _anything_ in this heavy gravity was physically exhausting. Although he was used to long working hours, there was a vast difference between assembling tools with the help of a machine, and having to fight monsters that would eat him if he stood still too long. But he found the strength to keep going. The Force itself gave him the endurance that his muscles lacked.

Zavahier just hoped that there was both food and a place to sleep awaiting him in the Academy.

Cormun’s directions soon brought him to the chamber Spindrall had claimed. It was one of the largest chambers Zavahier had seen in tomb so far. To either side were some training dummies, all of which were being attacked by other acolytes, none of whom were familiar to him; these were not the same acolytes that had received their orders from Harkun, so Zavahier paid them little attention. They seemed equally disinterested in him, barely sparing him a glance as he walked past them and climbed the steps to the raised platform. There was a figure in brown robes at the top, kneeling in front of a large stone… something. Maybe it was a sarcophagus, or perhaps some kind of altar. It was cracked and worn, covered in text that Zavahier couldn’t read, and flanked on both sides by great stone statues. The man had to be Spindrall. The chamber itself looked quite important; possibly the actual tomb in which Ajunta Pall was interred. Or maybe it had once been used for sacrifices. That would not have surprised Zavahier in the slightest.

As Zavahier approached, the man began to speak. “Slave. Welcome to my humble hole,” he said as he rose to his feet, still with his back to Zavahier. It was a moment or two before he turned around. “You are here for your trial, yes? Learn the ways of the Sith from a doddering old man in a tomb. And hopefully to return to your master with the mark of my approval.”

It all sounded faintly ridiculous when it was described like that, in the quiet and wavering voice of a bearded old hermit.

“Actually, I just came for some fresh air,” Zavahier said.

The sarcasm apparently went right over Spindrall’s head, and with a hint of irritation in his voice, he said, “Do you take me for a fool? No one comes into these tombs for the sheer pleasure of it—not even me.”

“I think I take you for someone with no sense of humour at all.” Zavahier was sure the old man’s words were a little jab at the amount of fun he’d been having so far, fighting K’lor’slugs and detonating explosives. But Zavahier was, at this point, becoming resigned to the fact that no matter what he did, he would always be subjected to the disapproval of other Sith.

Spindrall gave him a dark look, and continued. “Everyone comes here for power, even you, though you are unaware of your full potential. You will learn. All who enter these tombs sense that they hold secrets of the dark side.” The old man turned away from Zavahier again, and spread his arms wide to encompass the altar and surrounding statues.

Although Zavahier was dimly aware that there were two sides to the Force – the light and the dark – and he thought he’d heard somewhere that the Sith supposedly drew their power from the latter, it was the first time he’d given the matter any real thought. But there was no denying that there _was_ something about this place that called to him, secrets that he longed to unlock in the hopes of discovering more about his own powers.

“And these tombs _do_ hold secrets,” Spindrall continued as he kneeled before the sarcophagus once more. “But before you can learn them, you must pass a trial of blood. Survive this, and I will teach you what I know.”

Zavahier tensed, guessing easily what a ‘trial of blood’ was going to entail. He looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, the acolytes that had been practising on the dummies were now walking towards him. He counted six of them as he walked down the steps towards them. That hardly seemed a fair fight, and he experienced a stab of fear, an uncomfortable leap in his stomach. Fighting other Sith wasn’t going to be like battling K’lor’slugs. They would be strong and swift and clever like him. They all had weapons, and a couple of them allowed sparks of blue lightning to play across their fingers, showing off their skill with the Force. They were all bigger and older than him. As Zavahier moved into the centre of the chamber to give himself a good amount of space in all directions, two of the acolytes moved around behind him. Several of the acolytes were grinning, thinking that he’d made himself an easy target.

No, that one wasn’t grinning. He just had a horrific scar across his face, widening his mouth into a permanent ugly smile. “Silly child,” he said mockingly, before drawing his training blade and charging at Zavahier.

Two other acolytes followed suit; one from the side and another from behind.

But Zavahier was ready. He twisted to the side as the first acolyte reached him, allowing the man’s momentum to carry him past him, and with a surge of Force energy, he threw the acolyte at one of the ones that _hadn_ _’t_ charged. Both of them fell to the floor in a tangled heap of arms, legs and robes.

That was how to fight six acolytes at once.

Use them as weapons against each other.

A quick shock of electricity knocked a third acolyte off his feet.

The acolyte with the scarred face was the first one that actually posed a challenge. He swung his training blade, which Zavahier blocked with his own, but the strength of the other acolyte’s blow easily knocked his weapon aside. Zavahier staggered, almost losing his grip on the training sabre, and regained his balance only barely in time to dart away from another blow. He leapt to the side, and directed a savage kick at the back of the acolyte’s knee. When the man stumbled, he struck him across the back with his training sabre, leaving a burning welt on his skin.

Hitting a man in the back wasn’t exactly an honourable move.

But neither was setting six acolytes on him at once.

Four down, two to go.

And some of his fear was replaced with the knowledge that he could do this. His irritation with Spindrall for the unfairness of the fight was replaced with elation at the thought that _none_ of these acolytes could match his power. This was his first day as an acolyte, and he was already stronger than these others!

The fifth acolyte was looking nervous, almost unwilling to engage with Zavahier after he’d so easily incapacitated the others. But it seemed he had no choice, and he came forward, wielding his training blade with an unpractised hand. Zavahier’s blast of Force lightning left him twitching on the floor.

Zavahier’s confidence in his own abilities proved to be a mistake. Something solid hit him with enough force to throw him several metres backwards, and he landed hard on the floor, belatedly realising that it wasn’t an actual object that had hit him, but a powerful thrust of Force energy. As he began climbing to his feet, the sixth acolyte charged at him, and Zavahier only barely managed to scramble out of the way. The acolyte’s weapon grazed his shoulder, but the glancing blow wasn’t enough to paralyse his arm.

Trusting his instincts and relying on the Force to guide his aim, Zavahier threw a bolt of lightning over his shoulder. He heard the acolyte cry out in pain. This gave Zavahier a few moments to fully regain his balance. He looked around, checking to make sure each of his six opponents were now disabled; he had beaten all of them, and surely that meant he’d won?

Ah, but it wasn’t that easy, was it? The first three acolytes were now recovering; the one he’d hit with lightning was climbing unsteadily to his feet, while the other two had disentangled from each other and were also getting up. All three attacked again, followed swiftly after by the one with the scarred face. They’d all realised that attacking him one at a time was never going to work, so they sought to overwhelm him. Two swung their weapons at him; he used his own blade to parry one blow, while trying to dodge the second. It grazed his upper arm, and he gave a cry of pain.

The scarred acolyte took advantage of this moment to bring his weapon down hard on Zavahier’s wrist; for a moment it burned hotly, before his hand went numb and he dropped his training blade.

He didn’t try to recover it with his other hand. Instead he gave a great push with the Force, throwing all three acolytes just far enough away to give himself more space to work with. Then he began throwing lightning in every direction, blasting at any acolyte that moved.

Every time he knocked one down, they got up and attacked him again.

_You know what you have to do._

_Kill them._

_Kill them now._

Those weren’t his thoughts. They weren’t even _words_ , really. Just… _something_. But Zavahier didn’t like the idea of killing the other acolytes. He’d been fighting purely to incapacitate them, because killing them just seemed so… unnecessary. And the deaths he’d caused on Caekarro were still too fresh in his mind; he still felt guilty, he still felt that he’d done something _wrong_ by taking those lives. Still felt the weight of his actions. He wasn’t keen to do it again.

But it needed to be done. He should have known from the moment Spindrall had said this would be a ‘trial of blood’.

He _had_ to get over this idea that killing was something he shouldn’t do. He was Sith. He was going to spend the rest of his life killing other people before they could kill him. He would be killing other Sith. He would probably be killing Jedi and Republic soldiers. He would be required to kill anyone that threatened him.

Anyone that dared to get in his way.

The scarred acolyte was climbing to his feet again, after being hit with a bolt of lightning. If it was possible, his hideous grin seemed even wider.

“Die already!” Zavahier snarled at him, tapping into all the anger he felt. At Spindrall for forcing him into this. Harkun too. At the acolytes for not just accepting when they were beaten. At the entirety of the Empire for expecting him to become a killer just because of his Force-sensitivity. At the Force for inserting itself into his life, which was what had led him here. At himself for wanting to hold back. He was disgusted with his own weakness.

The Force lightning he unleashed on the scarred acolyte was perhaps the most impressive blast Zavahier had yet produced. For a moment, the acolyte’s skeleton glowed fluorescent purple beneath his skin. And when he fell to the floor, he didn’t get up.

Now the others looked truly frightened. Zavahier threw one of them into the wall so hard that the stone itself cracked from the impact, and the acolyte’s body fell with a sickening thud. Two others were felled with blasts of lightning.

The final two turned to run. Zavahier hurled one against the nearest statue, and shot the other in the back with a bolt of lightning.

And he hated himself for it.

But that was a source of power too. He could feel it inside him.

Zavahier took a moment to look over all six acolytes, both making sure they were all definitely dead this time, and also surveying his own handiwork. They were all covered in burns, either from the power of his lightning or from his training sabre. The neck of the one he’d thrown into the wall was bent at a completely unnatural angle. The one thrown at the statue was bleeding from the place where his skull had been caved in.

It was a display of raw savagery, the kind of which he’d never really considered himself capable of.

He hadn’t enjoyed it.

But now there was a feeling of…

Well, it was complicated. Disgust and satisfaction warred with each other in his mind. Pride and revulsion. Elation and guilt. It was enough to make him feel a little nauseous… unless that was the sight of six mangled bodies causing that.

He stooped to retrieve his training blade. The feeling was beginning to return to his hand, but the burns still stung. He climbed the steps leading to the sarcophagus, and came to stand behind Spindrall.

The old man stood once again, and turned around to face Zavahier. His eyes travelled over the carnage beyond, taking in each of the six dead acolytes. “Excellent. These former acolytes wanted nothing more than to earn their second chance for glory by killing you and taking your place. But your desire proved stronger, and their blood became the mantle of your victory. Well done – but you are not Sith yet.”

There was a brief moment during which Spindrall let Zavahier absorb that announcement, before he began to speak again; this time his voice took the tone of a recital, and Spindrall began to pace slowly back and forth in front of Zavahier. “Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.”

Those words sunk into Zavahier, and he absorbed them eagerly.

“This is the Sith Code. Commit it to your heart, and you will have the strength to crush your enemies. Do you understand?” Spindrall asked.

“Yes,” Zavahier said firmly. And he _did_ understand. The Sith Code put into words something he’d started to suspect but hadn’t been able to adequately describe. His powers were stronger when he drew on his passion, and through the strength that gave him, he’d been able to win, not just against the acolytes, but all the other battles he’d fought today. It had been his anger that had given him the power to defy Rawste, and that had led to his freedom. Everything that had happened in his life, starting from the death of his mother and the first undeserved shocks Rawste had inflicted on him for some misbehaviour Zavahier no longer remembered, had given him a great wealth of emotions to draw strength from.

Fear and anger, hate and frustration, confidence and determination. Even guilt. Even joy and satisfaction. Even the sarcasm, that cynical disdain for the galaxy and everything in it, even himself, was a smouldering source of power of its own kind.

And there was something wonderful about it. All of it. It wasn’t easy for Zavahier to admit, because it was fierce and complicated.

He didn’t like the fact that he’d killed six acolytes.

And yet…

A part of him revelled in that power. He loved not being weak. He loved having the ultimate control over his own existence. He was no longer a tool for someone else’s goals. He was _free_.

His chains were broken.

That there was also something inherently dangerous about using his passions in such a manner was not lost on Zavahier. There had always been something a little unpredictable about his emotions, and the sheer amount of destructive power he could bring to bear was still very frightening. He didn’t know the full extent of what he was capable of. That both worried and excited him. He wanted to find out just how much power he truly had. Yet he feared where that power might take him. And he shouldn’t enjoy being powerful as much as he did.

“I was born for this,” Zavahier told Spindrall, and he knew in that moment that it was true. It wasn’t just his ability to use the Force. It was the raw power of his emotions underneath. “I was born to be Sith.”

“Good. Then go. Return to Harkun and nurture your hatred of him. And use your fear of him to grow stronger. He may raise his fist to strike, but it is Lord Zash who determines where the blow will land,” Spindrall said.

There was that name again. Lord Zash. The senior instructor, his legal guardian, and apparently a person of great power and importance. So intriguing, yet still mysterious. Zavahier considered asking Spindrall about her, just in the interests of getting an idea of what to expect, when a different question came to mind. Lord Zash controlled Harkun, but… “But who controls Zash, I wonder?” he asked.

Zavahier almost thought he saw Spindrall smile slightly. “When you know the answer to that, you will have power over both your masters,” he said. For a moment, it seemed he might expand upon that, but instead he turned back to the sarcophagus. “Now go! Leave me to my rest.”

That was easily recognisable as a dismissal, and Zavahier took it, trotting down the steps and then picking his way across the chamber, stepping around each of the bodies. For a moment he wondered what would happen to them, and then realised a second later that they would probably be eaten by K’lor’slugs.

Which was pretty grim, but somehow…

Rather fitting?


	9. Ill-Gotten Gains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier finds some treasure, and reaches the Sith Academy at last.

Getting out of Ajunta Pall’s tomb wasn’t as easy as simply walking out. The way back, which was probably now clear of any danger thanks to Sergeant Cormun and his men, would only take Zavahier back to the spaceport. The way to the Sith Academy was forward. He battled his way past several more K’lor’slugs, which after the group of acolytes, barely posed a challenge at all. He felt physically exhausted at this point, but his connection to the Force felt as strong as ever, and he continued to draw strength from it, allowing him to keep going despite his protesting muscles and stinging burns. When a K’lor’slug scuttled angrily at him, he struck it with Force lightning and it died. It was easy.

A part of him was beginning to think it wouldn’t be long before he was able to _truly_ challenge Harkun.

But his more immediate ambition should be on becoming Zash’s apprentice. Only one acolyte from the group would be afforded that opportunity, and the idea of letting one of the others beat him to it was unacceptable.

Actually, the much _more_ pressingly immediate ambition, currently of higher priority than his future apprenticeship, was getting out of this tomb. He should have gotten suspicious when the number of K’lor’slugs began to decline, but there was no obvious military presence to explain it. And then he remembered the holo he’d picked up about mercenaries looting the tombs. They had obviously been required to clear out the K’lor’slugs in order to get to the artefacts. Now he would need to get through them to escape the tomb and enter the Academy.

No, not quite.

He’d have to kill them all and recover those artefacts.

Spindrall had told him this tomb was full of the secrets of the dark side, and if it was a choice between a group of looters having those secrets, or Zavahier… Well, Zavahier thought the artefacts would be more useful to him. He’d certainly learn more from them than the mercenaries would. They only wanted to sell them, presumably to other Sith. And when it came down to it, if those Sith wanted artefacts, they should come and get them in person rather than relying on mercenaries. So clearly if he was capable of acquiring the artefacts himself, then he deserved to have them more than those other Sith did. If they were too lazy to do their own artefact-hunting, then it was their own fault if they didn’t get any, wasn’t it? As that thought came to him, he latched onto it, instinctively _knowing_ that it was correct.

Decision made, Zavahier stopped in his tracks. Motionless at the end of a long corridor, he listened. Without the sound of his own footsteps masking the mercenaries’ activities, it was easy to hear them. They were a little way ahead, but not in his direct line of sight. Possibly in another one of those numerous side chambers?

It seemed likely.

Creeping forward, making sure to step lightly so that he made as little sound as possible, Zavahier paused at the entrance to the nearest side chamber. It was empty, so he moved on to the next. That one was also clear of mercenaries, though there were several sarcophagi that looked as though they’d been smashed open and looted. It was the _third_ chamber where Zavahier found the mercenaries. They were talking loudly as they worked on breaking open a sarcophagus. And they were completely unaware of his presence.

Should he walk in there and give them fair warning to hand over the artefacts or die?

Or should he just attack them without warning?

The former seemed like the more honourable thing to do. But it also seemed like a good way to be gunned down from multiple blasters before ever managing to get off a single burst of lightning. The latter option was more tactically sound. And it wasn’t like the mercenaries _deserved_ the chance to surrender; they were here ruining Sith tombs and looting Sith artefacts, things that annoyed Zavahier on a level that he hadn’t anticipated. It almost felt like a personal insult. They shouldn’t be here.

So after that brief bit of soul searching, Zavahier opted to send a bolt of lightning into the back of the man trying to smash his way into the nearest coffin. Even as the others yelled in surprise, their heads turning back and forth searching for the source of the attack, Zavahier effortlessly struck a second mercenary. They all began reaching for their blasters, but Zavahier was able to pull one weapon right out of its owner’s hand, sending it flying across the room. He wanted to prevent as many of them as possible from using their weapons; the fewer men shooting at him, the better his chances of dodging their blaster fire.

Only three mercenaries were able to open fire on him. He ducked back around the wall, using it as cover. They continued shooting for a brief time after he’d gone out of view, and then stopped. Obviously he wasn’t going to step around the corner while they were still shooting at him.

Zavahier drew his training blade, and readied himself.

And stepped out into the entrance to the side chamber. He loosed a blast of lightning that knocked another mercenary off his feet. The other two started firing again. Instinctively he leapt to the side to avoid one stream of bolts, and raised his training blade defensively; a few blaster bolts struck it and ricocheted off at different angles.

He hadn’t even been _trying_ to do that.

But the Force was much better than luck.

He walked forward more confidently, still using his weapon to deflect the blaster fire. Zavahier quickly realised that blaster bolts moved in a very predictable way, and all he needed was that vague sense of where they would be _next_ to send them bouncing away from him. A shame he couldn’t send them back at the mercenaries, but he couldn’t quite get the angle right. Most of them hit the walls, leaving little scorch marks.

Some of the first mercenaries he’d attacked were beginning to recover, getting to their feet or retrieving their weapons. Unlike the battle with the acolytes, Zavahier didn’t hesitate this time. He could berate himself for his brutality later. He hurled one of them across the room, smashing the body into the wall hard enough to kill.

He hit another with lightning, and then another, both with the pure intent of killing rather than disabling them. He deflected more blaster fire. By random chance – or possibly by the power of the Force – a few deflected bolts actually _did_ hit a mercenary, and the man went down.

One of the still living mercenaries gave up on his blaster, and instead drew a melee weapon. An audible hum of ultrasonic vibrations identified it as a vibroblade, a substantially more lethal weapon than the one Zavahier carried.

Pushing the other remaining mercenary back into the wall to keep him out of the way, Zavahier circled the last mercenary, and then parried the man’s first attack with his training blade. Close combat like this wasn’t Zavahier’s strong point. That had been very well established by this point, both in his sparring sessions with Balek and Wydr _and_ the fight with Spindrall’s acolytes. The fact that he was already tired _and_ unaccustomed to Korriban’s heavier gravity were also a cause for concern.

On the other hand, the mercenary didn’t have the Force.

So they were evenly matched.

Probably.

Zavahier wasn’t going to fight on the mercenary’s terms, though. In a melee battle, the other man would probably win. He had both the height and the muscle to simply overpower Zavahier. So instead of blocking the next swing of the vibroblade, Zavahier dodged sideways. He felt the blade graze his shoulder, but he kept going, dashing away from the mercenary. He heard the man pursuing him, just a few paces behind.

“Come back here, cowardly Sith!” the mercenary roared.

Zavahier sensed danger, and threw himself forward. The vibroblade sliced through the air above him. But he overstepped and fell to the floor. The mercenary gave a bark of laughter, clearly thinking himself the victor. He raised his weapon again, swinging it down towards Zavahier. But he rolled sideways, and the vibroblade struck the ground. Zavahier hit it with a spark of lightning.

And he watched with delight as the spark travelled up the blade, before reaching the vibroblade’s energy cell. Zavahier’s eyes met those of the mercenary just in time to see the look of realisation on his opponent’s face, a split second before the energy cell exploded.

It wasn’t a big explosion. Zavahier had only used a little spark. But it was enough to completely pulverise the mercenary’s hand. He screamed in agony, clutching the burned stump of his wrist. Zavahier, still lying on the floor, sent an arc of Force lightning into the man’s body. The screams reached an even higher pitch and volume.

Zavahier pulled himself to his feet, glaring at the mercenary. “Coward, am I? Pretty sure I fought all of you _alone_ ,” he said darkly, before throwing the mercenary against the wall. Then he stalked through the chamber, quickly executing the two other mercenaries that had survived his assault. Their leader had annoyed him with the accusation of cowardice; on some level, he knew that attacking them without warning had been… well, maybe cowardly wasn’t the right word, given the numerical odds had been in the mercenaries’ favour.

Ruthless was probably the better word.

Yes, that seemed to fit. It was probably an appropriate trait for a Sith. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Zavahier began collecting together all of the artefacts the mercenaries had stolen. There were several crates full of ones that had already been wrapped, packed and sealed, ready to send offworld; Zavahier wasn’t really sure what to do about those, aside from leave them here and inform Sergeant What’s-His-Name – Rikel, that was it – of where the crates could be found.

The artefacts taken from the broken open sarcophagi in this one chamber were easier to deal with. Zavahier couldn’t put them back where they belonged, since he didn’t know which of the tombs they’d been taken from, but they were all easily gathered up and stuffed into his backpack; fortunately his own belongings were so few that there was plenty of room for the assorted pieces of jewellery, as well as a couple of scrolls and a small stone tablet.

Most of the jewellery seemed to be nothing more than decoration, but when Zavahier’s hand touched a small amulet, a purple crystal hanging from a silver chain, the power it held was instantly clear. There was a moment of connection, where the dark energy of the amulet resonated with his own, seeming to amplify it. He knew what it meant: he would pass all the other artefacts on to the Sergeant who’d ordered their recovery, but this one was _his_ now. He pushed it deep into his pocket, not wanting to lose it; he would examine it more closely later. Preferably in private, where no other acolyte would see it and decide they were more worthy of it. Zavahier was quite prepared to jealously guard his treasure.

Just as he finished packing the remaining artefacts, he heard a soft groan nearby, and he turned to see that one of the mercenaries was somehow _still_ alive. It was the man he’d hit with deflected blaster fire, that he’d thought he’d killed. As Zavahier approached, the man looked up at him.

“Please… don’t kill me…” the injured mercenary begged.

Zavahier considered this request, and then said, “What would you do if our positions were reversed? I think you would have killed me without hesitation.”

“Please… mercy…”

“I don’t think so,” Zavahier said, delivering a sharp bolt of lightning to swiftly end the man’s life. This kind of thing was getting easier, just as long as he didn’t stop to think about it too much. Part of it was his own fear; he couldn’t afford to be seen as weak in the Sith Academy, and if he spared one of these thieves’ lives and Harkun heard about it…

No, he wasn’t going to take that chance.

There had to be no survivors.

He double checked that all of the other mercenaries were _definitely_ dead, and once he was certain of it, he took the backpack full of artefacts and left the chamber. With both mercenaries and K’lor’slugs dead, the corridor beyond was quiet and safe. Zavahier wandered along it, occasionally stopping to look at anything that caught his interest; a statue here, a sarcophagus there, a stone pillar bearing ancient and thoroughly incomprehensible Sith writings. Just taking a little time to enjoy the scenery.

And then, finally, there was daylight ahead. Zavahier climbed one final set of stairs and came out into the Valley of the Dark Lords once again. Ahead was the great pyramid of the Sith Academy, but where earlier the sun had been framed behind the summit, now the sky was dark and full of stars. A cold wind blew across the valley, tugging at Zavahier’s clothes.

He took a moment to appreciate the view, before walking towards the Academy.

This was his new home.

That felt a little strange, didn’t it? This whole idea that he had these powers, a position within the Empire, and a place to live. Almost like a sense of belonging, of being part of something. Of being more than just a slave.

Yes, ‘strange’ was exactly the right word for it.

Zavahier climbed the smooth stone ramp that led into the great pyramid, passing by a few sentries in heavy red armour. They all nodded respectfully as he walked past them. Zavahier had a look around for Sergeant Rikel, intending to hand over the artefacts he’d recovered, but after asking one of the sentries, he learned the man was off-duty. That wasn’t a problem; Zavahier could hold on to the artefacts for a little while longer, which would perhaps give him the chance to see if any others would be useful to him.

And now, at last, he walked into the Academy itself, taking in everything he saw: the looming statues of ancient Sith, the red banners, the presence of Sith guards in red robes. He went through the entrance hall and into the chamber beyond, a room with a high ceiling that looked as though it went all the way to the tip of the pyramid. In the very centre of the room was a tall, pointed obelisk, carved with what looked like faces amidst swirls of dark energy. Some of the faces looked twisted with horror. At the base of the obelisk were several words etched into the stone. They were recognisable as the angular characters of Galactic Basic, much more familiar than the thoroughly alien scripts he’d seen in the tomb. But every bit as incomprehensible. Zavahier would have liked to study the obelisk in more detail, though, as he could sense power whirling around it like smoke. He didn’t need to be able to read to feel _that_.

But he knew Harkun was waiting, and as much as he didn’t like to admit it, he _was_ afraid enough of the Overseer to not want to tempt his patience _too_ much. There was a fine balance between asserting himself and being stupid; he’d toed that line his entire life with Rawste, although admittedly he hadn’t always been good at knowing he’d stepped over it until _after_ he’d done so. Harkun had just as much power over whether Zavahier lived or died as Rawste had. Perhaps more.

Also, he didn’t actually know his way around the Academy, and therefore had no idea exactly where acolytes were supposed to sleep anyway. For several moments, he just stood and stared at the enormous room he’d found himself in, taking note of the two flights of stairs leading up to a second floor.

“Are you lost, acolyte?” the voice came from behind Zavahier, and when he turned around, he saw a Sith in impressive dark red robes. The man’s face was obscured by a mask, but he radiated an aura of great power.

“I’m supposed to report to Overseer Harkun,” Zavahier replied.

“Oh, you’re one of the slaves,” the Sith said dismissively. For a moment, it seemed that he was going to refuse to give Zavahier directions, but then he added, “Go through there, follow the corridor until the end, then turn left. Follow that corridor around the corner, and that’s Harkun’s office. Though if you have any sense, you won’t bother. You’ll never be Sith.”

“So I’ve heard,” Zavahier said, walking away before the man could do anything unpleasant to him.

He followed the directions he’d been given, and found his way to the office. It was a large room, furnished with a wide desk, behind which was an even larger table holding a big stone artefact of some kind; broadly rectangular, but with two spikes on top and a large sphere between them. There were other statues in the corners, and scarlet banners bearing the Imperial crest. Harkun was standing in front of the desk, speaking to the acolytes around him. Wait, there was one more than there had been earlier; in addition to Balek and Wydr, the girl, and the two other acolytes he’d not yet spoken to, there was—

It was him! The Sith that had been on the transport with Zavahier, Balek and Wydr. The one who’d sneered at their attempts at training, and who had looked on disdainfully as Zavahier chased 2R-C6 with the muja fruit. But before Zavahier could say anything, Harkun began to speak.

“Ah, the last one. Always the latecomer,” the Overseer said contemptuously, taking in Zavahier’s exhaustion and rather dishevelled appearance. “Now we can see what the hermit thinks of you slime.”

Harkun consulted a datapad, which presumably contained some kind of report from Spindrall. “Hmmm. Acolyte Kory. Step forward, please,” he said.

That seemed suspiciously polite, and the red-haired girl moved forward slowly, looking apprehensive. “Yes, Overseer,” she said meekly.

“You are a weak, pathetic rodent and even a lunatic like Spindrall can see this,” Harkun said, and Kory bowed her head shamefully.

That was obviously a mistake.

“And that means—“ Harkun broke off and stretched out his hand. Blue lightning leapt from his fingers, wreathing the girl’s body. She screamed, and then collapsed, twitching, to the floor, as lingering sparks radiated out from her body.

It was a much quicker kill than any of Zavahier’s had been, utterly brutal in its callous efficiency.

“Somehow the rest of you managed to pass Spindrall’s low expectations,” Harkun said derisively, before turning towards the Sith from the transport ship. “Meet our newcomer—Ffon Althe. This is real Sith strength, and he will tear you apart and crush your bones, slaves. Look on him! No connections left in the world, but pure Sith blood! This—this is Lord Zash’s future apprentice! Not filth like you!”

Zavahier turned to study the Sith, apparently named Ffon, and looked him up and down. Tall, handsome – in a Sith-y kind of way, but his permanent sneer detracted from his looks somewhat – and well-dressed. A few days ago, Zavahier would have considered Ffon a far too challenging opponent to take on. But that was when he was on the transport, practising with Balek and Wydr. Now he felt differently; he’d learned a lot about his own strength today, and Ffon didn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating as he once had.

Ffon looked imperiously at Zavahier, folding his arms as their eyes met.

“We’ll see how tough he is out in the tombs. Alone. With just me and my lightning for company,” Zavahier said threateningly. He wasn’t _quite_ as confident in this threat as he sounded, but that wasn’t really the point. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by Ffon just because he had ‘true’ Sith strength, whatever _that_ even meant. And Zavahier was pleased to note that the other acolytes looked both impressed and frightened by his threat to Ffon.

Ffon didn’t look particularly concerned, however, but that was fine. Let Ffon underestimate him.

“Right, get out of my sight, filth,” Harkun said. “Your training continues tomorrow, and we wouldn’t want you all to die too soon, would we? Ffon, rest up, and visit Spindrall tomorrow morning.”

The rest of the group began to disperse, gratefully escaping Harkun’s office before the Overseer could kill any more of them. Ffon sauntered out more casually, secure in the knowledge that as Harkun’s favourite, he was in no danger. Before Zavahier could leave with the other acolytes, however, Harkun called out to him.

“Not just yet, slave. I want a word with you. You might think it’s amusing to come in late, looking like you’ve been rolling in dirt, but remember this: Spindrall is a lunatic. His approval means nothing. You’re nothing. You’re worthless. You’re filth. You’re not worthy of being Sith, and you will die,” Harkun said, his words simply dripping with contempt.

“You think you scare me?” Zavahier asked. He half expected the Overseer to try to kill him on the spot, but Harkun just gave him another contemptuous sneer.

“You’re nothing. And don’t you forget it. Be gone, slave,” Harkun snarled.

Zavahier made his escape, purposely walking at a steady pace to give the illusion of being unworried. But privately, he knew he’d been poking at the snake, and he was lucky not to have been bitten. And yet… provoking Harkun was a good way of keeping the Overseer’s vitriol focused on him. Not only did he have the strength to stand against it – which the other former slaves clearly lacked – but the more Harkun harassed him, the more Zavahier would hate him.

And the more power he would gain as a result.

Wasn’t it just wonderful that he had learned so much about his power already?

Zavahier was still contemplating this as he turned the corner, and walked into a wall of muscle. It was Wydr, who stepped away from him. To Zavahier’s surprise, the other acolytes – excluding Ffon, of course – were waiting there as well, and they were all now gazing expectantly at him.

“Well?” one of the acolytes asked. He was lightly built, and had skin even darker than Zavahier’s. Unusual in the Empire.

“Well what?” Zavahier replied.

“Where _were_ you? You were _ages_ in the tomb. What happened?” Balek asked.

“Spindrall set six acolytes on me at once,” Zavahier answered.

“And you beat them _all_?” Wydr asked sceptically.

“Yes, I did. What did Spindrall put you through?” Zavahier asked, beginning to realise that his adventures in the tomb of Ajunta Pall had been different to that of the other acolytes, and not just because of the K’lor’slugs and mercenaries.

“Well, nothing really. He just looked me over and then recited the Sith Code,” said the dark-skinned Acolyte.

“Same here,” said the other one Zavahier didn’t know, a tall and muscular man with a burned face.

“For us too,” Balek confirmed, with Wydr nodding in agreement.

“Why did he make you fight?” the dark-skinned acolyte asked.

“I don’t know. He just said I had to pass a ‘trial of blood’ before he would teach me anything,” Zavahier said. He wondered if it meant Spindrall had considered him weaker than the others, so that he needed to do more to prove himself worthy of being taught the Sith Code. It was a shame Kory was dead, and couldn’t tell anyone what her trial had consisted of.

The thought that he might be the next one killed by Harkun was an unsettling one. Was he really that weak?

No. He couldn’t be. Zavahier _knew_ he wasn’t. If Spindrall had really thought him weak, then he would be dead now, like Kory.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You heard what Harkun said: Spindrall’s a lunatic. He probably just thought it was funny to make you fight,” Balek suggested.

“Probably,” Zavahier agreed, though he wasn’t convinced. Spindrall had been a little odd, there was no denying that, but he hadn’t seemed insane. The old man seemed like he knew what he was doing, and the ‘trial of blood’ must have served some purpose other than the pleasure of watching acolytes battle to the death.

“Come on, we’d better get some rest,” Wydr said, apparently deciding that when Harkun wasn’t around, _he_ was in charge of the group.

At another time, Zavahier would have challenged that notion. But right now he was too focused on his own doubts, so he let Wydr lead the way through the Sith Academy; he took them to a large barracks room containing several groups of bunk beds, separated by some open areas for training. “This is us,” he said, pointing out the cluster of four bunks – eight beds in total – in the far corner. “The ones over there are Overseer Tremel’s group. I met one of them in the tomb. Apparently most of them have been here nearly a month.”

Zavahier looked towards the other group of acolytes, studying them for a few moments. They were an insight into where he could expect to be a month from now. Most were already asleep, but two were still up, sparring each other with large swords that looked a lot more dangerous than the training sabres wielded by Zavahier and the other former slaves. His eyes met those of a third acolyte, a Sith Pureblood with dark red skin and dreadlocks, who was sitting on his bed, watching Zavahier with equal curiosity.

But Zavahier just turned away without engaging with the other acolyte, instead heading into his ‘corner’ of the barracks and stowing the bag of artefacts into a security chest. He locked it, because he didn’t want any of the other acolytes to get any ideas about looking inside the bag. He would let them think the backpack contained his personal belongings, over which he was ready to be possessive.

Ffon had already claimed one pair of bunk beds, and the look in his eyes said anyone who wanted the bed above him had better be prepared to fight for it. Zavahier went to the bunk beds diagonally across from Ffon – the greatest distance possible in the circumstances – and climbed onto the top bed. He liked the feeling of being up high, looking down over the rest of the room. Balek looked for a moment like he might claim the bed beneath Zavahier, but changed his mind when Zavahier gave a quick shake of his head. He had let Wydr take the lead briefly earlier, but the presence of the other group of acolytes in the barracks had been enough to make him, if not completely discard his doubts, then at least push them aside for the time being, because the establishment of a pecking order within the group was more important: if Ffon wouldn’t share, then neither would Zavahier.

He stretched out on the bed while Balek, Wydr and the other two acolytes – who introduced themselves as Gerr and Niloc – decided amongst themselves how to assign the remaining four beds.

Zavahier realised that he would have to stop talking to the other acolytes on friendly terms. They would never be his friends, because by the time all of this was finished, all but one of the acolytes would be dead. Zavahier would either have to kill them, or they would have to kill him. Or Ffon might kill them all, securing the position of Lord Zash’s apprentice for himself.

None of those options seemed particularly appealing right now. He’d killed a lot of people today. Far more than he’d _ever_ wanted to kill. And he had never wanted to become Sith in the first place. Yet his adventures in the tomb had been exciting, and there had been something very satisfying about being stronger than every opponent he’d faced today. It all felt very…

Confusing, actually.

He’d known it was going to be like this, of course. But the reality of it was so much different to what he’d thought it would be. It was more raw. Visceral. He’d done things today that were violent and ruthless and savage. More like he was some kind of _animal_ than a human. And it was hard to reconcile that with his previous decision to _not_ be the kind of Sith that went on a rampaging killing spree across the face of the galaxy. But how could he be a strong Sith without sacrificing who he was? How could he do what needed to be done if he was just going to lie awake at night, questioning whether he was still himself?

How could he go out there tomorrow, and probably kill again, and again, and again, without becoming a monster?

And yet there was a little part of his mind that gnawed at these thoughts, eating away at them, weakening them. He’d killed because he had to, but more than that, there had been a piece of him that enjoyed it. That feeling of power – of being in control, of holding someone’s fate in the palm of his hand, of having the strength to punish those who stood against him – was enthralling.

The part of him that had hated slavery couldn’t help but _love_ the freedom that came with being able to assert his strength over others. Revel in it.

Zavahier hated himself for that, and these thoughts continued to trouble him long after the other acolytes had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The barracks room the acolytes are sleeping in was inspired by an actual room in the Sith Academy. I never appreciated the attention to detail the went into creating SWTOR until I went poking into all the nooks and crannies.


	10. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier's training as Sith begins in earnest.

The next morning, the acolytes ate breakfast in the barracks, and Zavahier disposed of his damaged clothes from the day before. He did have a second set of clothes, but he chose instead to help himself to some dark grey robes from the Academy’s stockpile, which had been made available to the former slave acolytes. While Zavahier didn’t look as elegant and aristocratic as Ffon, since the Academy robes were rather plain and far too large for him, it was better than wearing clothes with tears from K’lor’slug talons, acolyte training sabres and mercenary vibroblades.

Wearing robes made him feel a bit more like a Sith – though whether that was a good or a bad thing he would have been hard pressed to decide – and the fabric itself was woven with cortosis, making them more durable than the clothes he’d arrived on Korriban with. In his hurry to dispose of his ruined clothes, he almost threw away the amulet that he’d buried in his pocket, but he’d remembered its existence just in time, transferring it to the pocket of his new robes. He was hesitant to actually wear it until he knew for certain what its powers were.

Ffon had disappeared early, having gotten up several hours before the other acolytes in order to face his first trial: visiting Spindrall as the rest of the group had the previous afternoon. The others seemed uncertain of what they ought to be doing next, as Harkun hadn’t left any specific orders.

Zavahier, however, already knew what he needed to do: find Sergeant Rikel and give him the other artefacts. He would have liked the chance to inspect them for himself, in the hopes of finding out if any more of them were ones he wished to keep for himself, but it seemed his chances of being able to do so without being spotted were low. It wasn’t worth the risk, so he’d just have to accept that _these_ artefacts weren’t meant for him. He still had the amulet, and there would be other tombs. Other treasures. So he retrieved the backpack from the security chest and slung it over his shoulder.

“What have you got there?” Niloc, the dark-skinned acolyte, asked him.

“Artefacts I retrieved from the tomb yesterday. I had to kill a whole group of mercenaries for them,” Zavahier replied. Apparently Niloc at least hadn’t mistaken the bag for personal belongings. Perhaps because if Zavahier had any of his own possessions, he wouldn’t be wearing borrowed robes.

“I thought you had to fight Spindrall’s acolytes?” Wydr asked, jumping into the conversation. He seemed determined to catch Zavahier out in a lie.

“I did. But I also killed the mercenaries. And there was also about a hundred K’lor’slugs, and all their eggs,” Zavahier explained, rather enjoying the look on the other acolytes’ faces when he said this. He left out the fact that most of those K’lor’slugs had been killed by the Fifth Infantry Company, with Zavahier backing them up. It wouldn’t have been possible to end the infestation without Zavahier’s assistance, and that was what mattered. But he realised now that he really shouldn’t have doubted himself last night: he wasn’t weak, and the fact that the others were actually shocked at everything he’d done in the tomb of Ajunta Pall proved it. “Are you telling me you went through that entire tomb and didn’t fight _anything_?”

“Well, there was a K’lor’slug… a small one,” Niloc said uncertainly, and it seemed that the others had similar experiences, as they didn’t have any superior kills to boast of. “So what are you going to do with those artefacts?” he added, quickly changing the subject.

“Not sure yet. I need to report the deaths of the mercenaries to some infantry officer. But maybe I can keep these, and do some exciting dark rituals with them!” Zavahier said brightly. He already knew that wasn’t going to happen; he wouldn’t get to keep the artefacts, and even if he did, he knew nothing about dark rituals—yet. But the utterly horrified looks Niloc and the others gave him were worth it.

Wydr clearly liked to pretend he was in charge, but each and every one of them knew where the real power was: wavering between Zavahier and Ffon. The latter had Harkun’s support, but Zavahier had the determination to succeed. He wasn’t going to let Ffon win. He wasn’t going to let _any_ of them beat him. The best that could be said was Zavahier was less likely to murder them all in their sleep: that’s what they were all thinking right now, and he knew it. He could almost hear it in their thoughts.

And fortunately for them, it also happened to be true. As long as they didn’t stand in the way of his rise to Lord Zash’s apprentice – because if he _had_ to be here, then he was going to excel – Zavahier felt no particular desire to kill them. He was having too much fun with their fear of him to want that to end any time soon.

Leaving the acolytes in a stunned kind of silence, Zavahier sauntered out of the barracks, carrying the bag of artefacts. After taking a few moments to get his bearings, he walked out of the pyramid, and approached one of the sentries guarding the entrance. “I’m looking for Sergeant Rikel. Direct me to him?” he said, trying to make it an order but still not _quite_ sure enough of his standing to be able to sound as forceful as he’d have liked.

Did he actually have the authority to order the sentries around?

He really wasn’t sure. Most of what he knew about the Sith was little more than rumours and reputation. But military officers had called him ‘sir’ on multiple occasions now, and that implied a certain amount of authority. Probably.

The sentry didn’t seem to question Zavahier’s position to anywhere near the same degree, however: “Down there on the right, sir,” he said, pointing to an officer standing near the path that led away from the Sith Academy.

Zavahier walked down the stone ramp and followed the path, soon reaching the broad-chested man in red armour. “I retrieved these artefacts from the mercenaries in Ajunta Pall’s tomb,” he said, opening the backpack to show Rikel the collection of artefacts. “There are several other crates of artefacts in the tomb, but I couldn’t carry them all. The mercenaries are dead, so retrieving the others shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Ah, then I’ll assume my men are dead,” Sergeant Rikel replied.

“I think so, yes. At least one of them was eaten by a K’lor’slug,” Zavahier confirmed.

That seemed like more information than Sergeant Rikel wanted, and he hesitated for a moment, before continuing on. “Even so, you have done us a great service. Their loss is your gain, I suppose,” he said, taking the artefacts from the bag and handing Zavahier a credit chip in exchange.

Zavahier looked at it, blinking in surprise when he saw what was _probably_ quite a high number.

So that was what Imperial military hazard pay looked like?

He really hadn’t been expecting being a Sith to be so lucrative.

He had _money_!

Sergeant Rikel nodded to him, and then went back to whatever he was doing; Zavahier pocketed the credit chip, and headed back towards the Sith Academy. It was definitely time to get some more training done, so that he would be prepared for the next trial. Or for when Ffon or Harkun tried to kill him. Whichever came first, really.

As he entered the pyramid, a dark-haired man intercepted him. “You must be one of the slave acolytes. Pretty easy to see why Overseer Harkun was horrified,” he said with narrowed eyes.

“You must have a _lot_ of friends,” Zavahier responded, bristling at the man’s rudeness.

“Quite. Regardless, Lord Zash has made it clear that all the new acolytes must learn martial skills as well as face their trials. Though, why anyone thinks _you_ can be taught is beyond me,” the man continued, giving Zavahier the kind of disdainful look that was becoming very familiar – and predictable – in this place.

“Watch yourself. I don’t respond well to idiots with big egos,” Zavahier said threateningly. He was getting a bit annoyed with the number of Sith who viewed him as worthless because of his origins. He’d proven his strength multiple times already, his powers were improving at a speed that easily outstripped the other acolytes – excluding Ffon, who was still a bit of an unknown – and he’d more than shown how well he’d done _without_ any tutoring.

“I’m fluttering with fear. Fluttering,” the Sith said, with the kind of sarcasm Zavahier was used to inflicting on others, rather than having directed towards him. “You’re late to your first lesson. You will find the instructors in the Academy’s training room on the second floor. Hurry and try not to embarrass your betters.”

Fully expecting the instructors to be just as bad as all the other Sith he’d met so far, Zavahier reluctantly went up the right-hand staircase in the pyramid’s main hall, and found himself facing the entrance to the archives. He had to move around the edge of the hall, following the path of the mezzanine to the opposite side, before he found what looked like a training room. He could hear voices from within, so he went inside, somewhat cautiously.

He found the other acolytes gathered around a fat, balding old man, who looked up as Zavahier entered and beckoned him over. “Good, you’re all here,” the man said. “I am Lord Samus, and today I will be instructing you in the rudimentary application of the Force. You all have some natural ability with the Force, but you are unaccustomed to drawing on it. I understand that some of you have already started to do this.” Samus paused briefly to nod at Zavahier, “But you still require some training in how to make best use of your powers.”

“I killed more than a dozen men yesterday,” Zavahier pointed out, feeling that his skills were much beyond ‘rudimentary’ at this point.

“Yes, you did,” Samus conceded, “But it was, as I understand, a rather crude display of raw power. The Force is of no use to you if you cannot fully bend it to your purposes, to control it consistently regardless of the situation. You may be ahead of your fellow slaves, but you must learn to control the power you already have before you start grasping for more.”

Prickling a little at the criticism, Zavahier nevertheless had to admit that Samus had a point. He’d spent the last few days pushing himself to use the power he sensed within him, but he had no idea how to use it _better_. Harkun’s efficient killing of Kory proved that Zavahier currently lacked finesse when it came to the use of the Force.

“Now then, I want each of you to focus on one of the most powerful emotions in your arsenal: rage. Remember a time when you were angry. Perhaps someone has wronged you, perhaps something hasn’t happened the way you wanted it to. Focus on how that felt. The sensations in your body, the speed of your thoughts, and the pulse of the power within you,” Samus instructed.

For Zavahier, that was easy; he couldn’t remember many occasions when he _wasn_ _’t_ angry at something or someone. But the memory he focused on now was one of the most recent, and certainly one of the most intense: when he’d lost his temper with Rawste and unleashed a storm of lightning powered by pure rage.

He remembered the rapid beat of his heart. The blood rushing to his face. The pain of the shock collar. The sound of his own screamed curses. The rage at how powerless he’d felt, until the power had burst from him, completely out of his control. He remembered the desire to hurt. To kill.

His right hand was idly turning the amulet over and over in his fingers, just as a means of helping him concentrate on himself, rather than those around him.

A bolt of Force lightning shot from his left hand and struck the floor with a violent _crack_ that echoed through the training room. The other acolytes jumped back, looking startled, and Samus gave him a long, hard stare, while Zavahier nursed his burned fingers.

“I never thought I would ever live to hear these words spoken to a Sith, but: try a less powerful memory, acolyte,” the instructor said. “In the future, your unbridled fury will serve you well, but right at this moment, I think it is too strong for you and it is holding you back.”

“You try living in a galaxy with trillions of idiots,” Zavahier grumbled irritably.

“Yes, I am quite aware of how annoying the galaxy can be. Now _focus_ ,” Samus said briskly. He began pacing around the edge of the group of acolytes, watching them all concentrating on their most powerful memories of anger. “Good, good. Now hold on to that anger, and focus on the power it gives you. You will have an awareness of the power within yourself, and in those around you. Feel their anger as well as your own.”

Zavahier had settled on using his generalised anger at the entirety of existence rather than any one particular memory. It was more of a smouldering ember, glowing malevolently in his mind, but not in any great danger of exploding. He could focus on it easily enough; he closed his eyes so as not to be distracted by the looks of great concentration on the other acolytes’ faces, which in Balek’s case just served to make him look constipated. And it was really hard to be angry while holding back a laugh.

He focused on the power within him. He’d tapped into it plenty of times over the last few days, but this was the first time he’d truly examined it. It wasn’t a physical thing, not like his muscles or any other part of his body. No, it was more of an inner strength, a part of his soul. It was a vast upwelling of power that constantly bubbled and churned against his thoughts. Yet to say it was in conflict with his thoughts was inaccurate; just because his mind was a storm, didn’t mean those aspects were battling against each other.

It was more the case that they contributed towards a greater whole. Thoughts, emotions and Force: wind, waves and lightning. They were all part of the same thing. Control over one, was control over the others.

But control didn’t mean restraint. Looking at his thoughts and feelings, acknowledging them, trusting them, didn’t mean trying to temper them or hold them back. Thinking of it as placing a harness on them, making them work for him, was… not quite the right analogy. His emotions weren’t chained. They weren’t harnessed.

No, wait. He knew what it was. His emotions _were_ the harness, and the Force was the beast they controlled. His anger wasn’t just something that churned away in his mind; it wasn’t _just_ an emotion. It was the means by which he could direct and control the galaxy around him. The Force was inside him, and it was all around him, and it was within the other acolytes, within Samus, within every Sith in the Academy. It was, in some small way, inside everything; the men who guarded the entrance to the Academy, the K’lor’slugs in Ajunta Pall’s tomb – those that had escaped the purge, anyway – and it was even in the rocks of the Valley itself.

It was everywhere, within everything.

A vast galaxy full of power.

Just waiting for someone to reach out and take it. Harness it. Bend it to their will.

And he could _feel_ it!

He could feel everything!

It was _his_ to command!

The whole _universe_ was his to control and dominate!

His eyes opened, and his anger vanished in a snap of excitement and elation as the full realisation of what the Force was dawned on him.

“ _Focus_ , acolyte!” Samus said admonishingly. “It’s not enough to simply have the emotions. You must control them, not become a slave to them.”

“I’m no slave!” Zavahier snapped instinctively, inclined to be sensitive about that word whenever it was applied to him. It irritated him that being a former slave seemed to be considered his most distinctive feature, rather than his strength in the Force.

“Then prove it. Draw on your anger, and hold it in your mind without becoming distracted,” Samus said. “Become the master of your passions.”

So Zavahier tried once more. He closed his eyes and focused on the anger within himself. It was easier this time, and he was determined not to let himself become distracted again. That proved difficult at first, just because the thrill of learning – and of actually being _taught_ by an experienced instructor – was such an enjoyable experience. Having been born into slavery, Zavahier had never received any formal education. To now have something that had always been denied him was just wonderful.

And that interfered with the anger he was supposed to be channelling. He could summon it readily enough, and hold onto it for a few moments, during which he held a brief communion with the Force, feeling all its raw power ready to flow through him, to be directed as he willed. Sparks came to his fingertips several times, unbidden and impossible to restrain.

But each time, the fact that he was having fun meant his efforts were constantly undermined by his own shifting emotions.

That was, of course, why these lessons were needed. Untrained, the acolytes’ powers were difficult to call on and control, and Zavahier was certainly not the only one who struggled to channel his anger consistently and without interruption. Balek’s concentration shattered the moment he could no longer hold his breath, and he was left gasping and red-faced, while Niloc tried to hold back his laughter.

Through all this, Samus moved amongst them, his hands behind his back as he strolled through the group, offering both reprimands as well as instructions. He was quite proficient at prodding the emotions of each of the acolytes, using just the right words to provoke their anger. Balek’s reliance on his brother was remarked upon, and Niloc was told to try focusing on his fear rather than his anger, in the hopes that this would work better for him. Wydr received praise for his effective grasp of his own anger. And now that Samus knew Zavahier was sensitive to being called a slave, he used the word every time Zavahier’s concentration faltered.

And it worked. Zavahier knew exactly what the man was doing, but that didn’t stop him bristling at him each time. He would have liked to have said that he was _letting_ Samus anger him, that he was in complete control of his own rage and able to draw on it at will. But that would have been a lie.

Yet each time Samus called him ‘slave’, Zavahier was able to use the anger it gave him a little more effectively. He accepted it, realising that he could both enjoy his lessons and still be angry at Samus at the same time, and that made it easier to stay focused on his anger. He kept it up for almost ten minutes, with Samus’ attempts to goad the other acolytes and their irritated responses adding to his own smouldering rage.

“Oh yes, that’s much better,” Samus said when his attention shifted back to Zavahier. “Good work, acolyte.”

And although Zavahier’s anger wavered a little at the unexpected praise, he nevertheless succeeded in holding onto it, maintaining his communion with the Force without allowing his pleasure to distract him.

He did, however, open his eyes briefly, and saw Samus smiling. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Samus nodded, a silent congratulations at not losing his anger even when receiving praise.

They continued practising for several hours, before breaking for their midday meal; when they returned to the training room afterwards, they were joined by Ffon. He had evidently passed Spindrall’s inspection, and he was all too pleased to demonstrate how easy it was for him to draw on his rage. He was certainly quite far ahead of them in terms of training, and he looked rather smug about it, dismissing practising drawing on his passions as, “A complete waste of time. I’ve been able to do this for years. Why must I be trained alongside these worthless vermin?” Ffon’s eyes were fixed on Zavahier when he asked that question.

“Because you’re not better than us. Not here,” Zavahier replied, meeting Ffon’s gaze without any fear. He felt only a desire to prove that Ffon really wasn’t his superior. “You might be important wherever you came from, but you’re an acolyte now, just like the rest of us. You can do more _only_ because you’ve already had some training. That doesn’t make you better than me. Or stronger. Just makes you a little bit luckier.”

“Well said,” Samus remarked. “Everyone must start somewhere, and these acolytes will catch up with you in no time, Ffon.”

Those words were well chosen. Now Ffon had a reason to work hard to stay ahead… and Zavahier had been motivated to do anything he could to catch up. He was going to prove that he was every bit as strong and powerful as Ffon. Stronger, in fact! Anything Ffon could do, Zavahier was going to learn, and he was going to do it _better_ too, just to prove that there was more to being Sith than having pure blood.

“Now then, as you’ve all had some practice drawing on your anger, it’s now time to start putting it to good use,” Samus said. He went over to a stack of crates at the side of the training room and opened it to reveal a number of small pebbles, all red-orange in colour. “Everyone take a handful of pebbles. These have all been imbued with the power of the dark side, which will make them easier for you to practice with.”

“How is that done? Imbuing something with the dark side?” Zavahier asked, instantly curious.

“That’s a lesson for _much_ later,” Samus said. “Come along now.”

A little disappointed – but only a little, since using the pebbles would be interesting, even if he didn’t know how they were made – Zavahier went to the crate and was about to take several of the pebbles, when Ffon shouldered past him and shoved him to the side, forcefully enough that Zavahier was pushed onto the floor, landing roughly on his rear.

“Out of my way, slave,” Ffon said, before taking the pebble Zavahier had been reaching for.

“Oh yes, _very_ classy,” Zavahier muttered as he climbed to his feet. “If you’re so much better than me, why haven’t you got any manners?”

“Because they would be wasted on filth like you,” Ffon said, turning his back on Zavahier and walking towards the centre of the room.

It was very, very tempting to hit Ffon in the back with a bolt of lightning, but Zavahier held back. He had a much better idea. Assuming he was correct about what Samus intended them to do with these pebbles. He took five pebbles from the crate, and then moved away to allow the other acolytes to take their share. He positioned himself several metres away from Ffon, slightly behind and to the side.

“Alright, does everyone have their pebbles? Good, good,” Samus said once the acolytes had arranged themselves around the training room, each with a handful of Korriban pebbles. “Now, you will all draw on your anger, as we practised this morning, and through it, use the Force to lift one of your pebbles into the air.”

This was a task Zavahier had already had some success with, having practised it extensively on the journey to Korriban. He set his pebbles down on the floor, focused on his anger – something that was even easier now that Ffon had insulted him – and used it to raise the largest of his pebbles upwards.

And then he threw it at Ffon’s head, a deliberately vindictive act that Zavahier was completely and totally in control of. If anything, having a specific purpose in mind made using his emotions easier, and throwing the pebble at his rival was so much more satisfying than just making the pebble float.

The pebble struck the back of Ffon’s head, and he whirled around, his fist raised in a threatening manner. “Hey!”

“Oops,” Zavahier replied, feigning innocence. “I think the pebble likes you.”

“You did that on purpose!” Ffon said.

“I did not.”

The lie was blatant and transparent, and thus served only to infuriate Ffon further. He raised one of his own pebbles with the Force and threw it at Zavahier, who saw it coming and easily dodged out of the way.

“Is that the best you can do? What kind of Sith are you?” Zavahier taunted, throwing another one of his own pebbles at Ffon, though the more experienced acolyte avoided it with ease. “You fight like a drunk Gizka!”

“Impudent wretch!” Ffon snarled back at him, and half a dozen pebbles – some taken from the hands of the other acolytes – were hurled in Zavahier’s direction.

Zavahier evaded most of these projectiles, but one bounced off his forehead, leaving a bruise and a small cut behind. But now he had a lot more passion to draw on, and rather than using the pebbles, he focused all his power directly on Ffon, throwing him bodily across the training room. The other acolytes scattered, scrambling out of the way to avoid being caught in the crossfire, and Ffon landed heavily on the padded matting, which covered the training room floor precisely for that purpose.

Ffon clambered to his feet, his long hair coming loose from its ponytail and his robes now looking rather rumpled. He didn’t hesitate to retaliate, and he shoved Zavahier with a great push of Force power, hurling him back against the wall.

Rather bruised, and with his injuries from the previous day stinging more keenly in response to the impact with the wall, Zavahier was still not about to let Ffon beat him. With a wave of his hand, he scooped up all the pebbles scattered across the training room floor, and flung them viciously at Ffon. With so many objects flying at him, Ffon couldn’t dodge them all; one struck him on the temple, and another, a pebble with a sharp edge along one side, tore a hole in his dark blue robes. Deep red blood seeped out from a shallow cut, only barely visible against Ffon’s red skin.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Samus called out in a ringing, authoritative voice. He stepped between Zavahier and Ffon, and used the Force to push them away from each other, pinning them against opposite walls so they couldn’t continue their fight.

“I’ll kill you!” Ffon snarled at Zavahier, struggling against Samus’ hold on him.

“Not if I kill you first!” Zavahier snapped back. He was easier to physically restrain, and his own struggles against the invisible force that pinned him to the wall were feeble in comparison to Ffon’s. That only angered him further, and he lashed out with a bolt of lightning that struck both Samus and Ffon.

There was a satisfying scream of pain from Ffon, but Samus withstood the lightning with barely a grunt, before raising his hand and closing his fist, a motion that was accompanied by the sensation of something closing around Zavahier’s throat. He tried to draw breath but found he couldn’t, and he gave up on directing his lightning towards his enemies in favour of clawing at his own throat, trying to pry the invisible hand away. There was nothing there for him to pull away, though, and his anger was quickly replaced by panic when the seconds wore on and he still couldn’t breathe.

But then the pressure vanished, and Samus dropped him to the floor. Zavahier fell forward on his hands and knees, a repulsively submissive position, and coughed, struggling to draw breath, and his desire to fight thoroughly squashed out of him. He was still trying to recover from the choking when he was hit with a bolt of lightning, and only when Samus used the same strangling technique on Ffon did Zavahier realise that his rival had taken the opportunity to hit him while he was down.

“I said, that’s enough. Both of you!” Samus growled, genuinely angered now. “Acolytes are not permitted to murder each other within the grounds of the Academy. What you do to each other out in the tombs is up to you, but when you’re in my lessons, you will behave yourselves. Do you understand?”

With his blood rushing and his heart pounding, Zavahier slowly climbed to his feet. He glared at Ffon, annoyed to have been beaten, and he wasn’t willing to be the first one who submitted to Samus’ demands. Ffon stared back at him, and also said nothing.

This earned them both a small shock of lightning from the instructor, and Samus asked again, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Zavahier said, reluctantly forced to concede defeat. For now. His words were echoed by Ffon, who seemed satisfied that Zavahier had answered first.

“Good. Now, I think we’ve done enough for today. But I want you all to practice. I will expect your abilities to have improved by our next session,” Samus told them, with a hint of menace in his voice; the penalty for _not_ practising would likely be severe.

Zavahier slinked out of the training room as quickly as he could, avoiding both Ffon and the other acolytes. Balek in particular looked as though he wanted to talk, and Zavahier just didn’t want to. Not right now.

Instead of returning to the barracks, where he would almost certainly be subjected to remarks from the other acolytes and whatever it was that Balek wished to say, Zavahier began a cautious exploration of the rest of the pyramid. It wasn’t long before he located a small storage room, and he settled himself in the back corner, choosing to study his amulet rather than brood over not being allowed to kill Ffon.


	11. Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier seeks knowledge and power... and learns the value of keeping his mouth shut.

The next day, it was as if Samus had completely forgotten the events of the previous lesson. Their instruction in the use of the Force continued without mention of the fact that Ffon and Zavahier had been quite ready to kill each other, and if anything, Samus was determined to cultivate a rivalry between them by constantly comparing their powers and abilities. Whenever Zavahier’s concentration lapsed, Samus was swift to point out that Ffon was far more skilled at controlling and drawing on his rage. But when Ffon failed to lift as many pebbles, or threw them with less accuracy, Samus was more than happy to praise Zavahier’s success. All the acolytes were encouraged to throw the pebbles at each other rather than at inanimate targets – “because when you fight a real enemy, you can’t expect him to stand still and let you hit him,” – and this very quickly established a degree of nastiness in the way Zavahier and Ffon mostly targeted each other, all but ignoring the other acolytes.

For Zavahier’s part, he was trying to provoke Ffon into attacking him more openly in the hopes of getting Samus sufficiently angry that he expelled Ffon from the Academy.

Or executed him.

Not something that Zavahier strictly _wanted_ , not even for his rival, but he had to admit it was far more likely that an acolyte who broke the rules would be killed rather than expelled. And if somebody had to die, he would prefer it to be Ffon rather than him.

Although the desire to kill Ffon _himself_ grew every time they interacted. Every time Ffon insulted him. Every time that arrogant Pureblood turned his wrinkled nose up at something Zavahier said or did… or just because Zavahier dared to _exist_. It shouldn’t have been too hard to push the Sith Pureblood into attacking him directly.

Yet it seemed Ffon was too smart to be fooled so easily, and he didn’t rise to Zavahier’s bait. And he held back from trying to provoke Zavahier too much, which he was initially somewhat offended by, as if Ffon didn’t think he was worth fighting with. But then he’d sensed a little pulse of fear within his rival, and he concluded that for all Ffon _said_ he was nothing but a slave, he was in fact afraid that Zavahier was actually strong enough to kill him.

And once Zavahier had figured that out, it made assaulting Ffon with thrown pebbles even more satisfying.

But he had been careful to behave himself when Samus was watching him directly, because he wished to remain in the instructor’s good graces. He wanted Samus’ help, and to receive it, he needed to show that he respected the instructor’s strength and knowledge.

After several hours of studying the amulet the night before, Zavahier had realised he needed some advice about it; he knew nothing of its properties or how to make use of it, and since he couldn’t read any of the books and scrolls in the Academy’s extensive archives, he would need to actually _ask_ somebody for guidance instead. And insofar as any of the Sith he’d met on Korriban could be trusted, Samus seemed like the perfect person to discuss the matter with. The instructor did at least seem to be more interested in teaching than he was in getting his students killed, and since Zavahier was in search of more knowledge, Samus was probably the safest one to ask. And so, as the other acolytes left the training room at the end of the lesson, Zavahier hung back, until he caught Samus’ eye.

“Can I help you, acolyte?” Samus asked.

“Maybe,” Zavahier said. “I had something I wanted to ask, but I’m not sure who to trust.”

“Very wise. I could assure you that I’m trustworthy, but you would be a fool to believe it,” Samus said. “And I don’t think you’re a fool, are you?”

“No…” Zavahier said, pausing for a moment, trying to decide on a tactic, a way to get the information he wanted without being _too_ obvious. “Suppose I found something. An artefact of power. Hypothetically, of course.”

And that was precisely how _not_ to do it.

Zavahier mentally cursed himself for his utter lack of subtlety. He really needed to learn to take a few _more_ moments to think about what he was saying before actually opening his mouth. To master the skill of manipulation rather than direct confrontation. The price for saying what he was thinking in front of Rawste had been a shock from his slave collar. The consequences of saying the wrong thing to another Sith could be a lot worse.

But calmly thinking things through didn’t mesh very well with all the emotions he needed to keep bubbling so close to the surface in order to perform well in his lessons. And patience had never been his strongest trait.

“Of course,” Samus said, with a slight smile and a knowing look in his eye. “As a superior Sith, I _should_ advise you to hand in this hypothetical artefact to Overseer Harkun, who will give it to Lord Zash. Traditionally, artefacts discovered by apprentices and acolytes belong to their master.”

“And as my instructor?” Zavahier asked.

“I would say that being in possession of such an artefact would explain your difficulties in controlling your powers. Such artefacts are intended to amplify a Sith’s power. Very useful, yes, but… overwhelming for someone at your level,” Samus said. “I think it would be safe to assume you don’t wish to destroy yourself in the process of killing Ffon?”

“Good guess,” Zavahier confirmed dryly, though privately he was a little startled that this was actually a possibility. Of course, he’d singed his fingers the first time he’d used his lightning, and again this morning, something which he now realised was due to the amulet in his pocket, but he hadn’t even considered the possibility that his power might actually completely consume him. “I’d much rather _he_ die, and I live to become Lord Zash’s apprentice.”

“Then once again, I would counsel you to give the artefact to Harkun, before you give him the satisfaction of seeing you destroy yourself with it.”

“I don’t _want_ to give it to Harkun. I found it. It’s _mine_. I can feel it,” Zavahier said forcefully. He couldn’t really have explained _why_ the amulet felt like it belonged to him, save for the vaguest sense that its dark power attracted him.

“This… hypothetical artefact that you definitely _didn_ _’t actually_ find?” Samus asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, that one,” Zavahier said.

Samus was silent for a little while as he considered this, looking Zavahier up and down in a deep and penetrating kind of way, as if properly looking at him for the first time. “In that case, I would advise you to place the artefact somewhere safe. Somewhere only you have access to. Should you succeed in all your trials and become Lord Zash’s apprentice, that would be an appropriate time to retrieve and use it, I think. Amplifying your powers beyond your ability to control will not help you with your trials, but by the time you are an apprentice, you will be better able to use the extra power.”

There was definitely some sense to that, so Zavahier nodded, accepting the advice. He would still need to find a safe place to conceal the amulet, but asking Samus for advice on that would kind of defeat the purpose of keeping it _hidden._ He would head out into the Valley of the Dark Lords this evening and find somewhere to hide the amulet. Somewhere nobody else knew about. And he would tell _no one_ of its location.

“In the meantime…” Samus said vaguely, wandering out of the training room and along the mezzanine that circled the Academy’s main hall. Zavahier went after him, his curiosity now piqued, and followed him into the archives. There were countless shelves of books and scrolls, and Samus went directly to a stack several rows to the right, and began running his finger along one of the middle shelves. “Let’s see… Ah, this one, I think…” Samus removed one of books from its place on the shelf and handed it to Zavahier.

Zavahier looked down at the book in his hands, unable to make any sense of the golden letters printed across its cover. “Um…” he said uncertainly.

“What is it?” Samus asked. “This book will teach you everything you need to know about Sith artefacts.”

Zavahier looked down at the floor, awkwardly avoiding Samus’ gaze.

“Come on, spit it out, acolyte,” Samus said, clucking his tongue with impatience.

“Well, you know I was a slave, right?” Zavahier said at last. “But not like the others. They were enslaved when their planets were conquered. I was…”

Zavahier trailed off again, still avoiding Samus’ gaze, and his face grew warm with embarrassment because he _knew_ Sith like Samus – and Harkun and Ffon, too – were all highly educated. The latter two would look down on him for lacking what they would certainly believe to be a very basic skill, and it was humiliating to have to admit it to Samus as well.

“Ah,” Samus said, apparently catching onto Zavahier’s meaning quickly enough, and though there was a slightly disgusted curl to Samus’ lips, he held back on openly deriding Zavahier for his lack of knowledge. “You were born a slave, and your education was considered an unnecessary expense.”

“Something like that,” Zavahier said.

“Well, that’s rather unfortunate. But not insurmountable,” Samus said, taking the book from Zavahier’s hands and returning it to the shelf. He then turned and walked away once more, going deeper into the archives. Here the shelves were filled not with books, but with odd looking objects with crystalline facets. Most were pyramids of black, gold, red or purple, but there were a few cubes and strange twelve-sided shapes that Zavahier didn’t know the correct name for. Samus selected one of these objects, and handed it to Zavahier.

It was a small pyramid, and it fit in the palm of his hand. The edges were gold and inscribed with intricate runes and glyphs, while each inner surface was etched with black and red lines. There was a kind of… presence emanating from it. Something dark and powerful, and hinting at forbidden knowledge.

“This is a holocron recorded by Darth Tarn, some two thousand years ago. He will teach you a little about the power of Sith artefacts, so that when the time comes for you to reclaim your treasure, you will be prepared,” Samus said.

“How does it work?” Zavahier asked, thoroughly intrigued by the holocron. He had never seen anything like it before, and the fact that it somehow contained knowledge in a form that he could use was fascinating. “Can any Sith make things like this? How—”

“Making a holocron is _well_ beyond your current abilities, acolyte,” Samus interrupted him, before giving a small chuckle. “But using one is easy enough. It requires the Force to open. Just direct a little of your power at it, and the image of Darth Tarn will appear. He will guide you through the knowledge contained within the holocron,” Samus explained, pointing to the apex of the pyramid.

“Thank you,” Zavahier said, looking up from the holocron to nod to Samus. He suspected that it wasn’t _quite_ that simple; he could sense great power within the device, and therefore great danger. He didn’t know _what_ kind of danger it might pose, but Samus was unlikely to tell him. This was just as much a test as everything else: Zavahier would have to rely on his own wits in his dealings with the holocron. Whatever _that_ entailed.

“Now off you go, acolyte,” Samus said. “Don’t forget to practice your Force awareness and telekinesis in addition to your other activities. You wouldn’t want Ffon to do better than you in our next session, would you?”

Zavahier laughed at that. “Yes, like he’s ever going to be better than _me_ ,” he said, before leaving the archives. It actually wasn’t very funny. He knew Samus was just taking the opportunity to stoke the flames of his rivalry with Ffon. But knowing _how_ he was being manipulated didn’t actually change the outcome; he was still just as determined as ever to be better and stronger than Ffon. When it came down to it, Ffon was his only _real_ rival in these trials. The others were nowhere near strong enough to actually compete with him. They were all afraid of him… though perhaps not quite as scared of him as they were of Ffon, and therefore not as afraid of Zavahier as they _should_ have been.

He would have to do something about that.

Zavahier put the holocron in his pocket as he left the archives, feeling that he didn’t want any of the other acolytes to know he had it. Not the same pocket as the amulet, though. He didn’t know what would happen if both powerful items were placed in close proximity to each other, and he didn’t think the pocket of his robes was the best place to find out.

And though he was impatient to use the holocron, both for the sake of learning about his amulet and due to intense curiosity about the holocron itself, Zavahier didn’t immediately rush to use it. He didn’t want his fellow acolytes to know what he was up to, especially Ffon, and thus some cunning and planning was required. So he went to dinner, and evaded Balek and Niloc’s questions about why he was late. The evening dragged on, impossibly slowly, when Zavahier was impatient to begin using the holocron and start learning about his amulet, and it was only after the other acolytes had gone to bed and fallen asleep that he finally crept out of the barracks.

The question was _where_ was the best place to use the holocron? He needed somewhere quiet and private, a place where no one would see and hear him. And then he would need a place to hide his amulet until he had completed the trials and become Lord Zash’s apprentice.

Well, there was always the archives. That was typically the place where acolytes went to study.

But even there, he might be seen or overheard by another acolyte, or one of the Overseers, or even some other passing Sith, of which the Academy seemed to contain an unnecessarily large number. Did these Lords and Darths really not have any better ways to spend their time? Even this late at night, Zavahier couldn’t be certain of having privacy in the archives.

The tomb of Ajunta Pall should be pretty safe by now, though, shouldn’t it? The mercenaries were all dead, and Sergeant Cormun and his men should have finished dealing with the K’lor’slug infestation. All Zavahier would need to do is find a quiet alcove where he could study both holocron and amulet without being interrupted or spied upon.

Zavahier passed by the obelisk in the centre of the hall, before heading out of the Academy and into the Valley of the Dark Lords. The sentries on duty nodded to him as he passed them, but nobody tried to stop him. The sky was dark, with the sun already behind the pyramid, plunging the whole valley into shadow. It made Zavahier a little uneasy to be wandering around in the dark… and yet that fear wasn’t enough to make him turn back. Fear was power, something to be accepted and used, not pushed away and ignored.

He followed the route he’d taken the day before, returning to the tomb of Ajunta Pall and then heading inside. Everything was quiet, almost peaceful, save for the hum of dark energy. It called to him. Excited him. And this entire expedition had the thrill of a forbidden adventure. He wasn’t supposed to be out here. He might die, and nobody in the Academy would ever know what had happened to him.

Zavahier took a small torch from a crate of supplies near the entrance, and used it to light his way as he pushed deeper into the tomb. The lack of mercenaries and K’lor’slugs created a kind of deep and penetrating silence that made the tomb rather eerie, which was emphasised by the darkness around him. Yet he had a sense of where he was. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could still _feel_ his surroundings. The walls themselves were drenched with the dark energy that permeated everything on Korriban. This tomb had stood for thousands of years, and each stone in the wall was attuned to the dark side of the Force. Zavahier could feel that far more clearly tonight than he had during his first adventure into this tomb.

He found his way back to the chamber where he’d killed the mercenaries. All the crates of stolen artefacts had been removed, but the sarcophagi that the looters had broken into were still in their damaged state. Would they be repaired eventually, or just left as they were? If not for that uncertainty, plus the fact that other acolytes might rummage through the open sarcophagi, Zavahier would have chosen one of them as the hiding place for his amulet. But he needed somewhere that _didn_ _’t_ have such an uncertain future.

He’d think of something.

But for now, he sat down on the floor near one of the broken open sarcophagi, and set the holocron down in front of him. He spent a few moments studying it, both its external appearance and the power radiating from it, before touching the top with his finger, letting his fear-tinged power flow from his body and into the holocron.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure that would be enough, but then a beam of blue light rose from the holocron, soon forming into the shape of a Sith Pureblood in flowing robes. It was larger than Zavahier had expected, so he scrambled backwards to make room… and to not have the tendril-covered face of Darth Tarn _quite_ so close to his own.

“This isn’t the Academy archives. Where have you taken me, acolyte?” the hologram of Darth Tarn asked, staring at Zavahier.

“The tomb of Ajunta Pall,” Zavahier answered. “How do you know I’m an acolyte?”

“It’s obvious. When you activated my holocron, I could immediately sense your strength in the Force, and the degree of control you have over your powers. You’re very early in your training, aren’t you? Why have you removed me from the Academy and brought me here?” Tarn asked.

“Privacy. I have things I want to ask, and I don’t want anyone else listening in,” Zavahier explained.

The hologram scowled, apparently not too thrilled with having been removed from the archives for such a reason. But then he nodded, accepting the explanation for now. “I see. What does a mere acolyte need to discuss that is so important?”

“Sith artefacts. I found one, but I don’t want anybody else to know I have it. Not yet,” Zavahier continued, and then an idea struck him. “I want to learn more about the artefact I found, and I thought it best to consult an expert like you.”

Tarn chuckled, looking Zavahier up and down. “Your attempt at manipulation won’t work on me, acolyte, but you are commended for trying. Now, tell me about this artefact you discovered.”

Zavahier removed the amulet from his pocket, and held it out so that the hologram could see it. He watched as Darth Tarn looked it over, making soft ‘hmmm’ sounds as he studied it. After a few moments, Zavahier said, “I found it here. In this very room, actually. Mercenaries were looting the tomb—“

“Mercenaries! In the tomb of Ajunta Pall! Outrageous!” Tarn’s hologram said, utterly scandalised by the mere idea of such a thing.

“I killed them all,” Zavahier assured him, and it seemed Tarn considered this a suitable fate for non-Sith who dared to raid the sacred tombs of Korriban. “And all the artefacts they’d removed from the sarcophagi were recovered. But when I picked up that amulet, I felt something. I don’t really know how to describe it…”

“You felt like it was meant to be yours?” Tarn asked.

“Yes! That’s exactly what it felt like,” Zavahier said. “It makes my powers stronger, but harder to control…” He quickly explained what had happened during the training session the previous day, when he’d used his Force lightning without intending to, and had been advised to use a less powerful memory of rage.

“Well, it’s certainly possible that the artefact is indeed meant for you. Perhaps it once belonged to an ancestor of yours, or maybe it simply recognises you as a compatible master,” the hologram said thoughtfully, and upon noticing the confused look on Zavahier’s face, he expanded his explanation. “When a Sith creates an item such as this, he imbues it with some of his own power and personality. If you have a connection to that Sith, either through blood or through having a similar nature and affinity for the Force, then it may create a connection to the artefact.”

Zavahier rather doubted that he had a Sith ancestor; as far as he knew, his mother’s family had been slaves for many generations. His father’s family were from the Republic. But the idea that his affinity for the Force was similar to that of an ancient Sith definitely had an appeal. It provided some legitimacy to his powers, proving that on some level, he was worthy of being Sith despite his origins as a slave. “Is the amulet safe for me to use, then?”

“Would it make a difference to you if it _wasn_ _’t_?”

“I’m not sure. I want the power, but if I destroy myself in the process, then the power is wasted,” Zavahier said, realising as he spoke that it was completely true; he _did_ want the power of the amulet, and for preference, he wanted it _now_. Waiting until he was an apprentice before using the amulet was the sensible course of action, he knew that. But it didn’t change the desire to use it now.

“What if I teach you how to deepen your connection to this artefact?” Tarn suggested. “When it is fully in tune with your connection to the Force, the power it provides will be easier for you to control. Then you can use it to destroy your enemies.”

“I like the sound of that,” Zavahier said, finding himself incredibly tempted by the proposition. It meant he wouldn’t have to wait until he was an apprentice to reap the rewards of his discovery, and it would place him solidly ahead of Ffon in terms of power. If he could actually _control_ that power more effectively, then all the better.

“Excellent. Now pay close attention, acolyte. You will need to concentrate. This process requires some affinity for Sith sorcery and alchemy, which you likely possess if you have already developed a connection to this artefact,” Tarn said.

“Sith sorcery?” Zavahier asked. It was a term he’d heard often enough in reference to the Sith, but he had little idea of what it actually entailed.

“You truly are early in your training, aren’t you? How long have you been in the Academy, acolyte?” Tarn asked.

“Two days,” Zavahier replied.

“Two days? You have been an acolyte for _two_ days?” the hologram asked, slightly disbelieving. “My, my, you _are_ ambitious, aren’t you?”

“I plan to be on the Dark Council within a year,” Zavahier said. It was mostly a joke. From what little he knew of the members of the Dark Council, they were all older and more powerful Sith. It must have taken them decades to reach their positions. But he allowed himself that unrealistic ambition, solely for the pleasure of it. He’d spent his whole life daydreaming of holding freedom in his hand, even though he’d always known it was impossible. But now it _wasn_ _’t_ impossible. He was Sith, and if he was strong and clever enough, he _could_ aspire to being the very best of them all. So why not enjoy the taste of it?

“You should be careful, acolyte. Ambition is a fine thing, but it must be tempered with patience, or it will do you no good,” Tarn said, looking a little concerned. “Are you _certain_ you want to do this now? You don’t wish to wait until you have more experience?”

“Yes, I’m certain,” Zavahier said firmly. While he did take all of a moment to consider the fact that this was all still very new to him, and leaping into this kind of power too soon might be dangerous… the fact that Darth Tarn was willing to teach him what to do made it seem a lot safer than trying to do it alone. He _wanted_ to do this. He wanted to feel powerful. To _be_ powerful. To have the strength to completely overpower and destroy Ffon.

“Well, on your own head be it...” Tarn said, though he didn’t sound all that unwilling to share the secrets that he thought Zavahier might not be entirely ready for. “Listen closely, and I will guide you through the process.”

“Thank you,” Zavahier said, pleased that Tarn wasn’t trying to hold back in sharing his knowledge. He shifted position slightly, getting a little more comfortable and then leaning forward to listen eagerly to the instructions.

“Alright, hold the artefact in your hands, and draw on your negative emotions: anger, fear, hatred. You need to feel them, but control them. They must not control you. If you are a slave to your passions—“

“I’m no slave!” Zavahier snapped sharply, saying the words before he’d even fully _thought_ them. And he knew instantly that he’d said the wrong thing.

Darth Tarn raised an eyebrow, regarding Zavahier curiously. “Really?” he asked simply. “Is there something you haven’t told me, acolyte? Something you’re perhaps a little sensitive about?”

Zavahier considered refusing to answer, and indeed after a few moments of silence, Tarn said, “I’m waiting, acolyte.”

So really, Zavahier didn’t have a whole lot of choice. He wanted to learn from Tarn, and that meant he had to keep the hologram talking, to convince him to share his knowledge. “I was a slave. Lord Yunash freed me and sent me here. But I’m stronger than _all_ the other acolytes, including Ffon.”

Tarn was silent for a little while. “Are there… many of you in the Academy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. There are four others in my group. There was a fifth, but Harkun killed her,” Zavahier replied. “It doesn’t make any difference. I’m just as strong as any other acolyte. Stronger! You see this tomb? _I_ killed the looters. _I_ killed the K’lor’slugs. _I_ found this amulet. And _I_ will become Lord Zash’s apprentice. Ffon is weak and lazy and doesn’t deserve the power he possesses. He’s nothing but a spoiled brat!”

“Well, you won’t be having _my_ help. You can take me back to the archives now, acolyte,” Tarn said, before deactivating himself, vanishing back into the depths of the holocron.

“Damn!” Zavahier swore, and an unintentional spark of lightning left his hands and struck the holocron. He tried to activate it again, directing his anger into the top of the crystalline pyramid. Darth Tarn did not reappear; apparently he’d decided that Zavahier was unworthy of his knowledge.

Angry, both at himself and Tarn, Zavahier hid both the holocron and his amulet in a cavity beneath one of the sarcophagi, before sealing the hole with several stones. He returned, rather reluctantly, to the barracks, hoping that none of the other acolytes had woken and noticed his absence. Wydr was snoring loudly, but nobody responded as Zavahier climbed up onto his bunk and wrapped himself in the blankets, trying to warm his body after the exposure to Korriban’s cold night air. With so little flesh on his bones, Zavahier had found himself rather vulnerable to the planet’s colder climate, and now that his anger was fading, he felt it all the more.

But he didn’t sleep. Instead he mentally went over his conversation with Darth Tarn’s holocron, committing his mistakes to memory. If he had learned anything today, it was that he _really_ needed to learn to think before he spoke, and to be more cautious in the information he shared. And he decided that he would _not_ take Tarn’s holocron back to the archives until he had the information he wanted. Eventually Tarn would have to instruct him in the proper use of the amulet. Zavahier would ask him every night until he relented. One way or another, he _would_ get what he wanted, and Tarn’s obstinance wasn’t going to stand in his way.


	12. Rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is still so much more to learn...

Three weeks went by in a blur of activity. The acolytes were required to train every day, and kept so busy that time seemed to pass quickly. Korriban’s days were five hours longer than Caekarro’s, and Zavahier adapted to this by taking short naps during the day whenever he didn’t have a lesson or training session to attend. Ffon mocked him for this, but Zavahier refused to be shamed out of doing what was necessary to keep himself alive. It wasn’t just the long days and the heavy gravity, but the toll slavery had taken on his body. Taking the time to rest so that he didn’t exhaust himself wasn’t a luxury or laziness, but something he _needed_ to do to survive. Without those naps, the physical exertion of his training would have been too much for him. And he was entirely too aware of the fact that the other acolytes were older than him. Bigger and stronger. He couldn’t help but feel rather self-conscious of his physical weakness.

Yet Zavahier was determined to succeed. He threw himself into his training, and took several hours each night to sneak into the tomb of Ajunta Pall, hoping to coax Darth Tarn’s holocron into imparting its knowledge. He hadn’t been successful yet, but he thought the outcome of his second trial would be decisive. If he passed his next trial, then Tarn might be willing to speak with him again. None of the acolytes knew when the second trial would occur, however, but Harkun had hinted that it might be soon… and that he would kill any acolyte who failed.

Lord Samus continued to train them in the use of the Force, channelling their emotions into destructive displays of power. Zavahier took to this naturally, easily able to throw objects and people, forcibly push opponents away from him, and summon powerful blasts of lightning from his fingers. He’d also learned how to create a whirlwind of Force energy, strong enough to trap someone inside; it was a more advanced form of telekinesis, and thus far, Zavahier was the only one who’d learned how to use it. Ffon probably had the strength, but he considered it a waste of time, preferring to focus on techniques that caused more direct damage. But Zavahier thought that trapping an opponent was still a valuable skill to learn. Perhaps more so because Ffon disapproved of it. There was a sense of pride in knowing he could do something that Ffon couldn’t.

As the other acolytes slowly learned to use Force lightning, Zavahier came to realise something else too: his purple-tinted lightning was somewhat unusual. Everyone else around him used blue, including Harkun, Samus and the other instructors. And Ffon, too; he enjoyed showing off his great proficiency with Force lightning, but seemed to resent to unusual colouration of Zavahier’s lightning.

Samus explained that the colour of the Force lightning was irrelevant to its power and the skill with which it was used, effectively goading Zavahier into proving that his lightning in fact _was_ better. Samus also suggested that it was simply a matter of personality; some Sith produced unusually coloured lightning due to some quirk in their deepest nature. An infuriated Ffon insisted he didn’t share _any_ personality traits with the other slave acolytes, whether they shared lightning colour or not, and he had delivered a vicious shock to Niloc to prove his point.

For a little while, Zavahier had wondered if it was the amulet which had made his lightning special. But then he remembered it had _always_ been purple, from the very first spark he’d given to Rawste. Regardless of what Samus said, Zavahier was proud of his lightning; it was powerful and strikingly coloured, marking him as separate to – and better than – the other acolytes.

Samus nevertheless liked to promote competitive behaviour between them all, and while Zavahier could recognise he was being manipulated, he couldn’t stop it from happening. Maybe he didn’t _want_ to. He rather enjoyed the feeling of beating his rivals, especially Ffon.

Their training in melee combat was no different. Overseer Rance encouraged the acolytes to be competitive and ruthless. There was no room for honour or fair play in the sparring sessions where he taught them the rudimentary skills of lightsabre combat. Rance emphasised victory above all else, where adhering to strict moves and techniques was secondary to displaying ferocity and cunning.

Zavahier, as the smallest of the acolytes, had suffered in the first few sessions, walking away from them thoroughly battered and bruised, with Rance claiming he was useless, and Ffon laughing at how weak he was. Balek, Wydr and Gerr were all strong and muscular, and their experience with backbreaking manual labour as slaves had given them a lot of physical strength to use in a fight. Ffon was slighter in build, but had the advantage of never having been required to go without, making him lean and powerful compared to Zavahier’s more gaunt and bony frame. The only acolyte that Zavahier was even close to being a match for was Niloc, and even he had a physical advantage, being a little taller and stronger. But Niloc was nervous and frightened, and Zavahier’s victories over him said more about his deeper passions than his physical power.

It was during the sixth session that things changed. Zavahier was sparring with Balek. He was dodging and weaving around the much larger man, trying to avoid being knocked down to the floor for the tenth time that day. There was some matting on the floor, enough to prevent any serious injuries, but still thin enough to make sure the loser of a sparring match walked away with enough aches and bruises to learn from. Weakness was rewarded with the pain of being thrown, knocked around or pinned down.

Zavahier was already rather battered, even though Balek tended to go easier on him than Wydr or Ffon. He leapt backwards, trying to avoid a sweeping slash of Balek’s training blade, only to find himself off balance. Balek kicked him in the side as he sought to steady himself, and he tumbled to the floor. His hand stretched out instinctively to break his fall, sending a jolt of pain through his wrist and forearm. It wasn’t painful enough to be seriously hurt – he had broken bones before, thanks to Rawste’s brutality, so he knew what _that_ felt like – but it gave him an idea.

Something he had learned from his father.

Zavahier cried out in pain, dropping his weapon and clutching his wrist. “Ow! Stop!” he called out, the words spoken between short, sharp breaths. He had experienced enough pain in his life to know how to fake it.

Balek had been about to slash him again with the training blade, but he hesitated, clearly reluctant to strike an opponent that seemed to be nursing a broken wrist.

And in the corner of his eye, Zavahier could see Rance shift position slightly as he focused his attention on him. The look on his face was one all too familiar to Zavahier; it was that sneer of contempt for weakness. The Overseer opened his mouth, ready to deliver a barrage of scornful disdain for Zavahier’s pitiful abilities with melee combat.

But then Zavahier made his move, retrieving his ‘dropped’ weapon in his ‘broken’ hand, and then slashed at Balek’s legs and belly before the larger man even knew what was happening. Balek gave a cry of surprise and dropped to the floor as the feeling left his legs. Zavahier rolled sideways to avoid being squashed by the much larger Balek, and quickly climbed to his feet.

“That was sneaky,” Balek complained.

“Yes, that was very cunning indeed,” Rance agreed, sounding genuinely surprised – and impressed – that Zavahier had managed to turn the fight in his favour.

“Hardly,” Ffon disagreed. “All he did was take advantage of that miserable slave’s weakness. A real Sith would never hesitate to finish off a defeated enemy.”

“A Jedi might, though,” Zavahier suggested.

“Precisely,” Rance said. “The Jedi will often seek to end a fight without killing, and so their willingness to show mercy is a weakness that can be exploited. Acolyte Ezerdus’ strategy here would be _very_ useful in such a situation. And I will remind you all that taking advantage of an enemy’s weakness is _always_ a good strategy, even when fighting other Sith.”

In every session after that, Zavahier took to using his mind rather than his body. He couldn’t win in a fair fight against much larger and stronger opponents, so he didn’t even _try_ to fight on their terms. Instead he sought to be unpredictable; moving in ways they didn’t expect, pretending to be weaker than he was to lure them into overconfidence, and even engaging them in conversation as they fought, playing on their doubts or disrupting their focused rage with dry humour. This was especially effective against Balek and Niloc, whose weaker emotions were more easily manipulated.

Ffon, however, was another matter entirely. He was better trained in how to channel and remain in control of his emotions, and was less easily distracted or provoked. That didn’t stop Zavahier from trying it anyway, of course, since speed and agility alone weren’t enough to give him an edge over his rival in a sparring match. In each session, he sought to find some way of interfering with Ffon’s concentration.

“Come on, Ffon! I’ve seen Sandfrogs stronger than you!” Zavahier taunted, comparing Ffon to the tiny amphibians living on Caekarro as he darted out of the path of Ffon’s training sabre. Neither of them had yet to land a blow on the other, through a combination of quick reflexes and that innate sense of precognition that so many Force-users possessed. Zavahier had discovered that it was something he did instinctively, reacting to attacks a fraction of a second before they happened. If he had time to concentrate, he could probably extend the ability further…

But that would have required standing still.

_Not_ a good idea when Ffon was trying to beat him into a pulp.

Annoyingly, Zavahier’s insults to Ffon’s fighting ability weren’t working very well – probably because he had used similar insults before – so he tried a different strategy.

“Such a big scary Sith you are. All those years of training and you can’t even hit a slave,” Zavahier said.

That had the desired effect, and Ffon charged at him, an aggressive attack that Zavahier dodged… but only barely. Ffon was angry, but not angry enough to lose control and make a mistake.

“And your face looks like melted wax!” Zavahier added recklessly, poking fun at the Sith Pureblood’s bright red, wrinkled skin purely because he knew Ffon was so proud of his heritage that insulting it would anger him further.

That did it.

With an inarticulate roar of rage, Ffon attacked him again, quicker and more viciously than Zavahier had expected. He dodged the first blow, parried the second with his own weapon, which was effortlessly knocked aside by Ffon’s greater strength. The third blow pushed Zavahier to the floor. The rest rained down on his shoulders and across the arm he raised to protect his head. The toxins in the blade left stinging burns on his skin, and when his arm was paralysed, he had just a fraction of a second to do _something_ to save himself from further harm. Powered more by fear than anything else, a wave of energy burst out of him, pushing back Ffon and everyone else within range.

That threw Ffon away from him for a few seconds, but Zavahier couldn’t easily get back to his feet when most of his body was either paralysed or stinging with pain. His movements were clumsy and awkward, and he couldn’t get up. But then Ffon was charging at him, ready to start battering him with his training sabre again.

“Stop! Stop, I say,” Rance said sharply, grabbing Ffon’s arm and pulling him back just in time. “You know the rules. No murder within the Academy’s walls.”

Ffon pulled himself free of Rance’s grasp and stepped away, standing straight and smoothing down his robes, trying to look as though he hadn’t just completely lost control of himself.

Zavahier had to wait until the paralysing effect of the toxins wore off, but after a few minutes he was able to stand, the burns on his skin visible through the tears in his robes. But he kept his head high, refusing to display even the slightest amount of fear. Ffon had beaten him, he knew that. But only because his taunts had worked. That was a victory of sorts.

But Rance just looked at him with a frown, and said, “I hope you’ve learned a lesson about biting off more than you can chew. Confidence can be dangerous when it makes you take stupid risks. Think before you act.”

“Yes, sir,” Zavahier said, though he wasn’t really discouraged by his defeat. His mistake had been in provoking Ffon, giving him more anger to strengthen himself with. In that sense, Rance was correct: he needed to think his plan through more before he acted on it. And he needed to find a way of weakening Ffon rather than making him stronger.

“Go and get those burns looked at,” Rance said, dismissing Zavahier from the training session.

Still, despite missteps such as that one, over the course of those three weeks in the Academy, it was becoming apparent that Zavahier _wasn_ _’t_ going make Harkun and Ffon happy by dying. And though still largely viewed with contempt, Zavahier nevertheless began to suspect that his presence in the Academy was at least tolerated by most of the instructors; Samus and Rance certainly didn’t see him as wholly useless, and were just as happy to teach him and the other former slaves as they were Ffon.

The doctor overseeing his recovery from the hardships of slavery stopped assuming he was going to die and took a greater interest in advising him on the best combination of diet and exercise to help him build up his strength. Zavahier was not the only acolyte to need medical care, either; injuries and accidents during training sessions and the Sith trials were common enough that Zavahier’s visits to the medical bay didn’t seem _that_ much more frequent than any other acolyte. The life of a Sith was hard on the body.

And although Harkun continued to insist Zavahier was worthless and undeserving of training, only a few days after his training began, a tutor arrived at the Academy, apparently on Lord Zash’s orders. His name was Lieutenant Darphi Briga, and he was not Sith, but instead a member of the Imperial Reclamation Service; he would not normally have been a teacher, but he had served Zash for many years and was nearing retirement, and he was willing to assist with the education of one of her acolytes.

There was a lot to learn. Zavahier needed to be able to read and write both Basic and High Galactic, as well as Ancient Sith. The latter was a language he had to learn to speak first, but that at least came to him with ease; having grown up around both human and alien slaves, Zavahier could already fluently speak several languages, and could understand many others to at least some degree. Briga had, with some surprise, described Zavahier’s spoken vocabulary as ‘excellent’, something he attributed to Caekarro’s local dialect, which tended to be formal even by the Empire’s standards. Adding one more language to Zavahier’s repertoire was no great strain. Reading and writing – learning to associate the letters of the Aurebesh with particular sounds – was more difficult, but Zavahier found the challenge enjoyable rather than frustrating. Briga also began teaching him the history of the Empire, with a focus on the rich and full history of the Sith, the events over thousands of years that had led to the Order as it existed today.

Ffon derided him for these lessons too, as though all the extra lessons were supposed to be some kind of punishment. One evening, as Zavahier sat on the unused lower bunk beneath his bed, slowly reading his datapad – onto which he had transferred a copy of _Ssrashae The Very Angry Tuk_ _’ata_ , a story with colourful illustrations – Ffon snatched the datapad out of his hands, and announced to the entire barracks that Zavahier was reading a story written for young children.

Thoroughly embarrassed – and still inclined to be prickly about Ffon beating him in their sparring session – Zavahier leaped to his feet, grabbed the stolen datapad with the Force and then, for good measure, hurled Ffon across the room with as much force as he could bring to bear. Taken by surprise, as he had not expected Zavahier to lash out so violently, Ffon’s body slammed into the wall, and he slumped to the floor. Zavahier struck him once with a bolt of lightning, not really caring that he was inflicting pain on an unconscious victim, and then turned to glare at the other acolytes, both his own fellows and those of Overseer Tremel’s group.

“Does anybody else have a problem with me _learning things_?” he asked angrily, and sparks of lightning crackled at his fingertips, a hanging threat against anyone who else dared to try to humiliate him for his lack of education.

“Uh, no. We really don’t…” Balek said after a few moments, and this sentiment seemed to be echoed by the other acolytes. “You just… carry on reading.”

Wydr and Gerr went over to Ffon, lifting his prone form and carrying him out of the barracks, likely to take him to the Academy’s medical bay. Zavahier watched them go, somewhat regretting that he hadn’t killed Ffon… but really, doing so in front of so many witnesses would have been suicide. He could at least be satisfied with having made his anger known, and if Ffon had the least bit of sense, he’d know better than to interrupt Zavahier’s reading again.

Even so, Zavahier no longer wanted to read in the barracks, not when all the acolytes would be nervously looking at him while he did so. He took his datapad and the leather-bound journal he had been using to practice his writing, and strode out of the barracks, intent on finding some location where he could study in peace. There were the archives, of course, and the Academy had a number of other rooms he could make use of as well. But as he was deciding exactly where he wished to go, his eyes fell on the words written on the obelisk in the Academy’s central hall, and he realised that one of them actually made sense to him now: ‘is’.

Struck with curiosity, Zavahier moved to the edge of the mezzanine overlooking the obelisk and studied the words written on it in greater detail. Each letter was identified, the sounds of them put together into words that he already knew.

“Fear is my al… all-ee… ally,” he said aloud, figuring out the last word in part by instinct, the only one that made sense in context.

Zavahier began walking again, moving so that he could see what other text was written on the obelisk. The front and the back carried the same four words, but the two sides had a longer passage. Sitting down, with his legs dangling over the side of the mezzanine, Zavahier copied them into his journal, and began to work out exactly what they said: ‘Fear attracts the fearful; the strong, the weak, the innocent, the corrupt.’

It was such a simple thing, really, working out what such a short passage of text said. It would have been nothing at all to Ffon. But Zavahier felt inordinately proud of himself for having deciphered it all by himself, without Briga’s assistance. Yet the actual _meaning_ behind the words, the description of the nature of fear itself, was a little harder to get his head around. He had an idea, maybe: fear was universal. Everyone felt it at some time or another, and Zavahier had spent most of his life living in fear, because it was impossible _not_ to be afraid when he had absolutely no control over his own life. It was a thoroughly familiar emotion, one that was innately connected to many others, and familiarity gave him some level of understanding, now that he actually stopped to think about it.

Cowards felt fear and ran. Brave men faced it and kept on going. That was what many people didn’t realise about fear. It wasn’t that some people didn’t feel fear, but that they did what they had to _despite_ their fear. That was how Zavahier had gained his freedom, when his fear had stopped being enough to hold him back.

Being Sith would involve a lot of that, Zavahier was beginning to realise. It was one thing to be afraid, to feel that deep pit of dread and turn it into a source of power. But it was another thing entirely to _show_ that fear, or to even admit to its existence. There was a strange irony to that, perhaps. In the realisation that _every_ Sith must be afraid, yet each one would deny it for fear of being seen as weak by other Sith. Yet they must all know how all the others felt. Even Zavahier, having known of his Force-sensitivity for a matter of weeks, was able to instinctively sense the emotions of those around him.

The contradictions involved here were complicated, but the longer he thought about it, the more he thought he understood the underlying principle:

A Sith’s own emotions were strength and power.

But the emotions of others were weaknesses to be fed upon and exploited.

That seemed to be the only explanation that made sense. Otherwise, having such an intrinsic understanding of their own emotions should have empowered each Sith with a profound sense of empathy for the others, rather than a culture of fierce rivalries and viciously cold-hearted betrayals. Fear of how their emotions would be used against them drove each and every Sith to commit that very act against others before becoming the victim of it themselves, creating a circle without beginning or end. Zavahier’s instruction in the history of the Empire had taught him that very well.

But there was still more to it than that. If a Sith understood his own emotions, then he understood the emotions of others… and that understanding told him how he could use them for his own gain. That was the basis of the entire culture of the Sith; each individual Sith looked out for himself, drawing power from his fear of the others, and the fear felt _by_ the others, feeding on their emotions to strengthen himself.

Zavahier was beginning to wonder if he would ever trust anyone again.

“Hello.”

The voice interrupted Zavahier’s chain of thought, and he craned his neck to look at the person standing behind him; it was the Sith Pureblood from the other group of acolytes, the ones being supervised by Overseer Tremel. He was long-faced and handsome, with sharp, angular features, and he was smiling at Zavahier, which was actually somewhat concerning. With his dark red dreadlocks and his friendly smile, he really didn’t _look_ like a Sith, yet the dark power radiating from him was unmistakable.

“Hello,” Zavahier responded warily.

“You’re—“ the man started.

Zavahier sighed and interrupted him. “Yes, I’m one of the slaves. Yes, I’m not as well educated as you. No, I’m not planning on dying. I’m _terribly_ sorry to disappoint you.”

The Sith sat down next to him. “Actually, I was going to say: you’re clearly the strongest acolyte in Harkun’s group, so we should talk. I’m Karroh Dalmuri.”

“Ezerdus Khalla.”

“What were you doing?” Karroh asked, gesturing to the obelisk below. “You were staring at that thing for a very long time.”

“I was thinking. Contemplating the nature of fear,” Zavahier replied. Exactly how long had he been staring at the obelisk? How long Karroh been watching him before deciding to interrupt? He _really_ needed to learn to pay more attention to what was going on around him. Before somebody took the opportunity to kill him while he studied.

“Any revelations?” Karroh asked curiously.

“Perhaps. I wasn’t quite finished,” Zavahier said with a shrug, pushing all of the thoughts he’d been having aside. He’d return to them later. For now, he’d focus on Karroh; clearly the other acolyte wasn’t just here for a friendly conversation. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to introduce myself. It seems to me that we’re in different groups, so we’re not in direct competition. Which means we may as well be at least civil to each other, don’t you think?” Karroh suggested.

Zavahier considered this, and then nodded. “I suppose so. I would have thought you’d rather be cosying up to Ffon, though.”

“What, because he’s a Sith Pureblood and you used to be a slave? I don’t care about that. He’s nowhere near as great as he thinks he is. And I’m thinking long-term: you and I are not in competition now, and we won’t be when we’re apprentices either. Maybe in some distant future when we’re both Lords of the Sith, we _might_ have reason to want each other dead, but that’s years from now, if it happens at all,” Karroh explained.

Zavahier had to admit, if only to himself, that he hadn’t been thinking that far in the future. At the moment, he was only really thinking about his immediate future: gaining enough power to survive the trials and beat Ffon to become Lord Zash’s apprentice. “So what are you proposing? Allies?”

Karroh laughed. “Nothing so formal as that. How about we just agree that we’re not going to get in each other’s way? And if either of us comes up against something we can’t handle alone, we can get a little help from each other,” he suggested.

“I thought the whole point of these trials was to weed out the people too weak to complete them?” Zavahier asked, feeling a little suspicious of Karroh’s suggestion; it seemed to fly in the face of everything he’d learned about the Sith and the Academy itself.

“You’re right, that _is_ the point. But the definition of weakness is open to interpretation, and there’s no rule that says acolytes can’t work together. You can be sure those twin brothers in your group are helping each other. Sometimes real strength is in knowing when you need a little help,” Karroh explained. “And there’s a practicality to it, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

“Wonderful! I’ll see you around,” Karroh said, clapping Zavahier on the shoulder. Then he got up, and headed off back towards the barracks, leaving Zavahier alone with the obelisk of fear once again.

Zavahier stayed where he was, a bit confused by that entire exchange. It felt a little like being caught up in a surprisingly friendly whirlwind, and he wasn’t really sure what to make of it. On the surface, it seemed like nothing more than someone recognising the sense in not making more enemies than needed. But Karroh’s point about getting a little help from each other when needed was perhaps less benevolent than it sounded: Zavahier was sure he would be helping Karroh far more than Karroh would be helping him.

And who could say what else their pact of non-hostility would entail in the long run?

And Karroh was a Sith. In both rank and species, just like Ffon. Trusting him without question would be a foolish mistake. There had to be some kind of manipulation behind that outward facade of friendliness. No Sith was _that_ nice to a slave unless they had some kind of ulterior motive. And even though they weren’t competing for the same position, that didn’t mean Karroh _wasn_ _’t_ a rival. Everything Zavahier had learned so far warned him that _all_ Sith were rivals, no matter how friendly they might seem.

Still, it was better than the derision and contempt he’d received from almost everyone else in the Sith Academy, and it was perhaps a little reassuring to know that there was at least _one_ person he didn’t need to fear.

Or maybe the whole point had been to put him at ease and make him less suspicious, opening him up to betrayal later?

Zavahier wasn’t certain.

He went back to staring at the obelisk of fear.

The most sensible course of action was to fear Karroh. Fear his intentions. Do not fully trust him. But go along with the agreement for the time being. Perhaps if Zavahier was clever enough, he would be able to use the agreement to his own advantage. He didn’t know how he would accomplish that yet… but he would figure it out. Once he understood what motives drove Karroh, he would know how to use him.

But he had the lingering impression that Karroh had already figured out how to use _him_. The other acolyte had picked up on some of Zavahier’s motivations already: his desire to succeed, his distaste at being seen as a slave, and his reluctance to simply kill everyone he met.

Zavahier didn’t like the idea that Karroh had figured him out that quickly.


	13. The Second Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path to becoming Sith requires overcoming weakness...

Over the next few days, Zavahier did not come into contact with Karroh very often. They were both busy with their respective training, and at one point Karroh disappeared for an entire afternoon for one of his trials. Yet whenever they were in the same room together, Karroh made a point of saying ‘hello’, which Zavahier was obligated to respond to. It still felt odd, though. He was sure Karroh was up to _something_ , but he couldn’t figure out what it was, other than the idea that Karroh would be calling in a favour one day.

The strange thing was that Zavahier wasn’t sure he would even object to doing so. He didn’t need Karroh’s help to succeed, he was very sure of that, but if Karroh needed _his_ help, then Zavahier saw no particular reason not to. It was similar to helping the Imperial military, building up ties and a network of people that would one day be useful to him.

Unless Karroh betrayed him, of course. Zavahier wasn’t about to ignore that possibility either.

Being Sith was getting _really_ complicated.

But it was rather thrilling, wasn’t it?

Much more interesting than doing the same menial chores every day, as he had when he was a slave. Trying to figure out what Karroh was up to, and how best to get Ffon killed without being blamed for it, and eagerly absorbing everything Samus, Rance and Briga were willing to teach him, made life very complicated.

But fun, though.

Oh, yes.

A great deal of enjoyment could be found in devouring knowledge, using his passion, chasing power, and trying to outsmart his fellow acolytes. Becoming Sith would not have been his first choice, if he’d actually had any choice about what to do with his freedom. But it certainly had its upsides.

He spent as many hours in the archives as he could. His reading skills were still limited to the most basic of texts, but fortunately the archives contained a great many holocrons, and through them Zavahier began filling in as many gaps in his knowledge as possible. His history lessons with Briga were readily supplemented with first-hand accounts from the Sith who had recorded their lives in those holocrons, and Zavahier gained a greater understanding of the Empire that had given him his freedom.

Zavahier had been born towards the end of the last war with the Republic. He’d been nine years old when the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, too young to truly understand the significance of it at the time. Caekarro had been a somewhat resentful part of the Empire, cherishing what little freedom it held onto, but holding the Empire in at least grudging respect. Or fear. The Republic had been seen as bloated and corrupt, but ultimately distant. Caekarro had never had much stake in the war, and Zavahier had never been in a position to care either way.

But things were different now. He was Sith, and the most intelligent Sith were incredibly political creatures. Zavahier _needed_ to understand the politics behind the recent history between the Empire and the Republic. His lessons with Briga were corroborated by the historical accounts within the holocrons: the Republic – and especially the Jedi – were a threat that had to be dealt with. Zavahier had no particular loyalty to the Empire, and was inclined to begrudge the sense of duty that his instructors were trying to instill in him.

But if nothing else, self-interest would compel him to fight. If he was Sith, then the Jedi would see him as an enemy. That point was brought up frequently, so often throughout the Empire’s history that there was no doubt that it was the truth. There were thousands of years of history, detailed accounts of several attempts at conquest and extermination by the Republic, and multiple wars. These facts all proved that the Jedi would never rest until every Sith was dead, a legacy that Zavahier would soon inherit. The last war had been started by the Empire, but it still had the same motivation: it had been as much self-defence as vengeance.

The first line of the Sith Code had never seemed more accurate. Officially the Empire and the Republic were at peace now. But it was a fragile thing. Another war was coming. It was inevitable. He could almost _feel_ it brewing on the horizon like a gathering storm, looming over his entire future.

And it explained Zavahier’s presence on Korriban, and that of the other former slaves; when the Empire went to war, it would need Sith. A great many Sith, enough to crush the Jedi once and for all. The losses during the last war had been staggering, and now it was better to elevate slaves than to risk not having enough power to overwhelm the Empire’s enemies in the next war. It could be years from now, or decades. But it was coming.

It wasn’t simply a matter of knowing that the Republic would always seek to destroy the Empire unless it was utterly destroyed itself. Peace was a lie; life itself was conflict, and it was through conflict that a being would become stronger. Which was more powerful: the being that fought for and won everything they had, or the one that had everything handed to them just for the asking? Peace bred complacency and corruption; conflict bred strength and determination.

And what greater proof of this was there, than in comparing himself to Ffon? Zavahier’s whole life had been built around conflict. As a slave he had experienced suffering the likes of which Ffon could never imagine, and that gave Zavahier an edge. He’d been struggling and fighting for as long as he could remember, his indomitable spirit pushing him forward even as Rawste sought to keep him down. The very freedom he had now had been purchased with his father’s life. Zavahier was ready to fight for what he wanted in a way that the aristocratic and spoiled Ffon had never been required to do. Ffon assumed he would be victorious because he believed he deserved it. But it was Zavahier who had to struggle for every step forward he took.

That was why he would win. The conflict and pain that made him who he was had given him a strength that Ffon could never achieve.

And there was something about learning more about the Empire and his place within it that gave Zavahier some appreciation for it. Not loyalty. Not devotion. Not duty. Just a simple appreciation for everything it stood for.

Perhaps a feeling that a debt was owed. The Empire had freed him. And though Zavahier disliked and distrusted the Sith, he couldn’t lump the _whole_ Empire together with them. Lieutenant Hislan had treated him with nothing but kindness. Sergeant Cormun had been respectful and pleasant to work with. And Lieutenant Briga had opened him up to an enormous galaxy full of knowledge.

Would he fight to protect people like that? People who did their jobs, and did them well, and deserved better than to be brutally murdered by an enemy with an established history of bloodthirsty violence and attempts at genocide?

Yes.

Absolutely.

And there was reason enough to believe that he would one day have to do exactly that. Some thirteen hundred years previously, the Republic had destroyed almost the _whole_ Empire, wiping out Sith and soldiers alike. And scholars and scientists. Women and children. Slaves. Everyone who had the misfortune of living within the Empire’s territory had been seen as a viable target, regardless of innocence or guilt, strength or weakness.

Caekarro had been a victim of that attack. Briga had located the records of the planet’s history because he had correctly guessed that Zavahier would be interested to know more about where he came from. Originally a Sith colony, Caekarro had been attacked by the Republic after the Great Hyperspace War, as part of the attempt to purge the galaxy of all things Sith. Only a small number of slaves down in the mines had survived the assault, and they had rebuilt Caekarro from the ruins. They had refused the Republic’s overtures a few decades later, refusing to join the people that had done so much damage. And in time, some of the former slaves had become masters, reinstituting slavery as a way of punishing criminals. Some of them were likely Zavahier’s own ancestors, though the records of that time were so fragmented that it was impossible to prove.

Zavahier chose to believe it. His father repulsed him, and he had already known that the Republic had once done something to make Caekarrans distrust it. Learning more about the Republic’s history of mindless violence against anything even remotely associated with the Sith made him even less interested in that side of his heritage. But even though his mother had been a lowly slave, she was Caekarran, and Zavahier could be proud of that ancestry. Bombarded by the Republic in a vicious act of genocide, the survivors had risen from the ashes and become a strong, independent people. That was something Zavahier could take pride in, and knowing more of his homeworld’s history really had stirred up a passion for destroying the Republic that Zavahier might never have found otherwise… even if his ancestors had apparently been criminals.

Peace was a lie, and one day the whole galaxy would know it.

Zavahier was slowly writing these thoughts into his journal – because doing so was good practice, and helped him make more sense of his own thoughts on the matter – when he was interrupted by Karroh. Zavahier looked up when he sensed the other acolyte’s approach, giving him a questioning and slightly irritated look. “What is it?” he asked.

“Overseer Harkun has summoned the rest of his group of acolytes to give them their second trial. Shouldn’t you be there as well?” Karroh asked.

Zavahier frowned. “Harkun never mentioned it this morning,” he said darkly, realising that the Overseer had likely _deliberately_ not told him, hoping that Zavahier would miss it. He got up, pushing his journal deep into his pocket, and began gathering the four holocrons he’d been using to further his understanding of the Empire’s history.

“I’ll put those back for you. Hurry,” Karroh said, taking the holocrons from Zavahier.

“Thank you,” Zavahier replied, grateful for the assistance, but also perfectly aware of the fact that Karroh had chosen to help him purely because of the debt it would create between them. There was nothing he could do about that right now, though; he dashed out of the archives and down the stairs, past the obelisk, and into the corridor that led to Harkun’s chamber.

But then he slowed down. And stopped. He took a moment to compose himself and catch his breath, smoothing down his robes and pushing his hair out of his eyes, before sauntering into Harkun’s office at a slow, casual pace. He affected an air of having _chosen_ to arrive late, just so that the other acolytes wouldn’t know Harkun had intentionally tried to exclude him.

“Ah, here you are, slave. _Finally_ ,” Harkun said with his usual contemptuous sneer. “The rest of you already know your trials, so get going. You too, Ffon. I need to get our latecomer up to speed, once again.”

The other acolytes dispersed, leaving Harkun’s office in varying states of confidence or anxiety depending on the nature of their trial… or how difficult they perceived it to be. Zavahier imagined that it was another excursion to the tombs, since all but Ffon looked worried; the others were all intimidated by the dark energy of the tombs, much preferring the relative safety of the Academy.

“You really do think you’re special, don’t you, slave?” Harkun asked darkly. “Arriving late all the time, sneaking off in the middle of the night, showing no respect for the ways of the Sith. Do you think the trials are a _game_ , slave?”

“Just like Pazaak,” Zavahier replied. Yes, he knew _exactly_ what the trials were: Harkun’s attempts to weed out those he considered unworthy. But they were _supposed_ to cull the weak. Those were actually two very different things, though Harkun seemed to believe otherwise. But a despised slave could be strong, and a favoured protege could be weak. Not that Harkun would ever admit it. “Are you going to tell me my next task or not?”

Harkun looked very much like he wished he could kill Zavahier then and there. Which made his next words something of a surprise. “Lord Zash has requested a special trial for you, which you will no doubt fail.”

A _special_ trial? Specifically chosen by Lord Zash, no less. Now wasn’t _that_ interesting?

That didn’t sound like the kind of thing a Sith Lord would require of a low, unworthy slave, did it? If he was doomed to fail, then why set up a trial especially for him, one that was apparently different to the task the others – including Ffon – had been sent on. Zavahier couldn’t help but wonder if Harkun and Lord Zash had differing opinions about what qualities were desirable in an apprentice.

“Go to Inquisitor Zyn in the jails. He will fill you in on the details—and most likely, hasten your demise,” Harkun continued.

“Don’t count on my demise, Harkun. I don’t die easily,” Zavahier said. He was quite certain that Harkun’s opinion meant very little, and all that _really_ mattered was impressing the mysterious Lord Zash. Well, Spindrall had pretty much said exactly the same thing, but it was right in this moment that Zavahier realised just how true it was. There was finally solid, undeniable proof that impressing _Zash_ was more important than trying to satisfy Harkun.

Not that it would change anything; Zavahier was still going to do everything he could to become as powerful as possible. If Lord Zash had indeed taken an interest in him, that was a reason to work _harder_ to prove himself, not less. Somebody was watching and taking note. And there were still many more trials to go, and he didn’t want his future master to think Ffon might be the better choice. Zavahier knew much of his strength lay in struggling against adversity; it was how he’d always lived, and even now, as a Sith, he didn’t want things to be easy.

Oh, yes, _that_ sounded sane, didn’t it?

Surely no one in their right mind _wanted_ to be constantly challenged in such a way?

Yet he could sense the power that came from conflict, and an easy life would sap at his strength. Being Harkun’s favourite, as Ffon was, would not inspire him to be great in the way that being hated did. It was nice to know that Lord Zash thought he was worthy of a special trial, of course. It meant that Zavahier now knew for certain that his efforts _mattered_. Someone was looking past Harkun’s vitriol to see who was _really_ the best acolyte.

“Don’t boast, slave,” Harkun snarled, apparently sensing Zavahier’s confidence. “I don’t want to see you again until you’re back from the jails. That’s all. Now get out.”

Zavahier had been in the Academy long enough to have explored it all. Well, _nearly_ all of it; there was an upstairs area, accessible by elevator, that was reserved for the usage of the Dark Council, and the members of the Imperial Guard watching over it had made it quite clear that acolytes, no matter how curious, were not welcome within. But he did at least know where everything else was, including the jails, though again, acolytes were discouraged from simply wandering around ‘just to see what was there’. Actually, that was a common theme throughout the Sith Academy; a certain amount of curiosity was deemed a good quality in an acolyte, but there was a line between curiosity and nosiness that Zavahier found himself crossing on a regular basis.

Now, however, he had a good reason to enter the jails. The main part of it was a large, open area with cells enclosed in red force fields lining the walls. Three of the cells were occupied by prisoners; one who simply sat on the floor, seemingly resigned to his fate; one who ranted at the Sith guard who paced in front of the cells; and one who pounded his fists on the force field containing him, a rather futile attempt at freeing himself. That third prisoner paused briefly as Zavahier walked in, looking warily at him, only to resume his pounding when he realised that Zavahier wasn’t there for him.

Truth be told, Zavahier wasn’t sure _what_ he was there for.

Only now did he wonder if this was a trap. Perhaps this _wasn_ _’t_ a special trial requested by Lord Zash, but an attempt to confine him to one of these cells.

Well, if it _was_ , he wasn’t going to be taken easily. He would fight to his last breath before he ever allowed himself to be caged again.

Inquisitor Zyn was waiting for him outside the interrogation room at the very back of the jails, pacing idly with his hands behind his back. He was an older, heavily-set man in dark blue robes that were as much armour as clothing. And he smiled when he spotted Zavahier. “Acolyte!” he greeted in a suspiciously warm voice. “You’ve arrived, and not a moment too soon. Let us get to work.”

Yes, _that_ didn’t sound at all ominous, did it?

Zyn went into the interrogation room, and motioned for Zavahier to follow him. Still wary, Zavahier did so, startling slightly when Zyn sealed the door behind them. But the Inquisitor made no move to harm him; instead he strolled towards the back of the room, where another acolyte was strapped to an interrogation table.

“Lord Zash has given me very specific instructions,” Zyn began to explain in a slow, almost lazy tone. “You were raised as a slave, but must discard those traits and learn to control others.”

Zavahier shifted a little uncomfortably as Zyn remarked on his upbringing as a slave, only to realise that it wasn’t intended as a criticism, but merely a statement of fact: despite the strength and determination he’d shown thus far, he still had many instincts that had been drilled into him as a slave, and these traits would not serve him well as a Sith. He might have known on a rational level that, as a Sith, he was in a position of power, but he still wasn’t sure of where the limits of his authority lay. He didn’t know how much he could demand of the sentries and other military officers stationed on Korriban. Nor did he take naturally to dominating the other acolytes.

He still didn’t like the idea of killing unless he had to.

Or unless it was Ffon on the receiving end.

So perhaps Inquisitor Zyn had a valid point.

“Fortunately,” Zyn continued, “I have just the task for that end. Meet this drivelling excuse for an acolyte. He will be your victim.” Zyn gestured towards the acolyte held restrained on the interrogation table, a red-haired young man close to Zavahier’s age. Bruises marked his face, and while Zavahier could clearly sense the other acolyte’s Force-sensitivity, he lacked the aura of dark power that he was starting to associate with those who were actually worthy of respect.

“Victim?” Zavahier asked thoughtfully, considering the cringing red-headed acolyte, who looked back at him with a terrified look on his face. Zavahier could practically _smell_ his fear. It filled the room, and he could draw power from it.

And yet…

He was pretty sure he knew what Zyn expected him to do.

“Why? Is there a reason, or…“ Zavahier asked, before trailing off, leaving the rest of the question unsaid: was he supposed to hurt this man just for fun?

“Oh, no. This is not an idle diversion, acolyte,” Zyn replied. “A short while ago, there was what we call an ‘unauthorised murder’ here in the Academy. A rivalry among apprentices resulted in death. Alif here supposedly saw what happened. Interrogate him. Make him tell you who committed this crime, at any cost.”

That didn’t seem quite as bad as simply torturing another acolyte purely for entertainment, but even though the young man was so obviously weak and terrified, Zavahier couldn’t help but feel a little reluctance to hurt him. He sensed a dual purpose in the task he had been set: a push towards overcoming the very reluctance he now felt, as well as a warning of where his rivalry with Ffon would lead if he wasn’t careful.

Zavahier stepped closer to the interrogation table, still uncertain. He glanced sideways at Inquisitor Zyn, who had turned away, seemingly to continue other work… yet Zavahier was sure Zyn was still paying attention to everything he did.

Alif groaned, and stared at Zavahier with wide eyes. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything,” he pleaded.

“Zyn says you do.”

“I don’t, I really don’t. I didn’t see anything!”

Zavahier frowned, giving Alif a long, hard stare. He couldn’t be completely certain, but he thought he could sense deception. Alif was lying to him. He was holding back the truth.

He glanced at Zyn again. There really wasn’t any choice, was there? This was his trial, and he needed to prove he wasn’t weak, that he wasn’t a slave anymore. He was a Sith, and he would have to _make_ Alif tell him the truth.

Finding his anger was easy. Alif was lying to him. Zyn was forcing him to become something savage. The Empire required him to be strong, or else he would die. All of these facts were more important than any reluctance he might have about doing what was necessary. And he would have to do worse than this in the future. Better he get used to it now. Find some pleasure in it if he could.

He hated what his Sith training was turning him into. No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Zavahier actually enjoyed feeling powerful, having some control over his life and his body. He loved all the knowledge he had access to. But he hadn’t failed to notice, over the course of the last few weeks, how much more easily violence came to him. How much he enjoyed growing stronger and using his powers against Ffon, and the other acolytes as well. The strength of his ambition. The desire to be respected – and to _demand_ that respect when it wasn’t given to him.

Alif could have just _told_ him who was responsible for the death of the apprentice. But no, he had to be stubborn. He had to snivel and beg, and be more frightened of the murderer than he was of Zavahier. So really, he was forcing Zavahier’s hand, wasn’t he? Alif’s attempt at deception was so pathetic, yet he thought Zavahier stupid enough to fall for it.

“Don’t lie to me!” Zavahier snarled at Alif, unleashing a bolt of lightning from his fingers.

The other acolyte screamed as the lightning wreathed around his body. Strong enough to cause pain, but not enough to kill. Zavahier knew enough about shocks from his days as a slave to know _exactly_ how much the human body could take before being rendered unconscious. He did _not_ like using that knowledge on someone else, even a cowardly rodent like Alif.

“Please. Don’t do that again,” Alif whimpered.

“What shouldn’t I do again? This?” Zavahier asked as he sent another barrage of lightning into Alif’s body, using both hands to deliver a more powerful shock.

It was easier the second time. Alif’s snivelling cowardice was easy to find contemptible. Zavahier had never been _this_ pathetic after a single shock from his collar. And there was… something satisfying about seeing the weaker acolyte writhing in pain on the interrogation table, completely and utterly at his mercy. It was a heady, empowering experience, to be the one in control. To be the one in power. Alif could live or die depending on Zavahier’s wishes.

“Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll do anything,” Alif begged.

Zavahier remembered saying things like that, years ago now when he’d been young and stupid enough to believe such words would work. They never had, though.

Was this how Rawste used to feel? Strong and powerful, and completely in control. Had he enjoyed hearing his slaves beg for mercy?

That thought was a sobering one, like a blast of freezing cold water, and Zavahier’s lightning faded away as his anger and contempt for Alif were overwhelmed by disgust at himself.

Why did being powerful have to lead to so much _guilt_?

Zavahier changed his strategy, and not just because he was feeling a little sickened with himself. Being in control wasn’t just about who could inflict the most pain. It wasn’t just about raw power. If that alone was enough, then Rawste would have crushed his spirit years ago. Anyone could be a vicious brute that resorted to violence as the _only_ solution to every problem. This was no different to the sparring sessions with the other acolytes. True power came from making others _fear_ him. If they didn’t know what he was going to do, or what he was capable of, then they would be too scared to challenge him. And it meant he wouldn’t have to kill them.

“Entertain me. Give me a song or something,” Zavahier told Alif, who stared at him in surprise because he’d been expecting another shock. Behind him, he sensed a shift in Zyn’s attention. No doubt the Inquisitor was _also_ wondering exactly what Zavahier’s strategy was. But that was all part of the plan. Zavahier considered his greatest strength to be in his ability to think on his feet, to change his tactics at a moment’s notice. To be unpredictable. His power was in chaos and confusion. Letting others think he didn’t know what he was doing. Allowing them to underestimate him.

And it seemed to be working. Now Alif looked utterly confused… and thus completely terrified. Zavahier’s sudden shift from painful shocks to a request for a song had thrown him completely off balance. “Sing? Are you serious? I mean—sure, yeah. What should I…?” he asked uncertainly.

“I don’t care. Just make it something cheerful,” Zavahier said. On the face of it, demanding a specific song might have seemed like the more obvious way of asserting control… but he liked this way better. Alif would have to think for himself and get _creative_ if he wanted to live. That just made the situation even more terrifying for the acolyte. Also, Zavahier didn’t really know any songs. The only one he could remember was a nursery rhyme Icallijo used to sing to him when he was little. A song intended to soothe him when he was too hurt or frightened to stop crying.

“Um—okay. Alright,” Alif said, somehow managing to look even _more_ frightened than he had when Zavahier was using Force lightning on him. “Um. ‘They say it’s a perfect galaxy… a great day to be alive… dee dum dee dum dee dum.’” His voice was high and wavering, and definitely _not_ in tune.

Zavahier folded his arms, and stepped back slightly, giving Alif a revolted look as the acolyte’s voice trailed away into silence.

“I’m sorry. I’m… I’m—I’m too nervous. I can’t remember any of the words. Please just let me go,” Alif begged.

Zavahier switched tactics again. It was _fun_ being in control like this. After so many years of having virtually _no_ control over his life, being the one in a position of power was… wonderful. No, he didn’t like hurting Alif very much; it reminded him too much of his past. But he _loved_ knowing that Alif was afraid of him. “You _really_ need to learn to project your voice,” he said, taking the chance to mock Alif’s poor singing voice as he blasted his victim with another painful shock.

Alif screamed, and struggled against his restraints, wanting to get away from Zavahier’s lightning. But he was held firmly in place, unable to escape. He was completely at Zavahier’s mercy, and he knew it. “Stop!” Alif cried out. “Please! Alright. Alright, I’ll talk. He’ll kill me, but I’ll talk.”

Zavahier pulled his hand back, and the lightning was briefly redirected into the air above Alif, before dissipating completely.

“The murderer is an apprentice named Esorr Kayin. You have to protect me or he’ll kill me,” Alif said. Somehow, even after all this, he was still more afraid of the apprentice he’d seen commit a murder, than he was on Zavahier’s lightning and demands for entertainment.

Well, perhaps that was justified, given that Zavahier hadn’t yet _killed_ anyone… at least not in Alif’s presence. But still, Zavahier thought everything he’d done should have demanded at least a _little_ respect.

He hit Alif with another final spark of lightning, and said, “I doubt that. He’ll be far too busy being punished for murder.”

After all, if the murder had truly been unauthorised, and was a serious enough crime to warrant all of this, then Esorr Kayin was hardly going to be wandering around the Academy looking for a chance to kill Alif, was he?

“He’ll find a way…” Alif whimpered. “Please, you have to protect me.”

“I really don’t think it’s my problem,” Zavahier replied. That was harsh, and he knew it. But it wasn’t his place to protect the weak. He needed to look after himself first, and he wasn’t going to make himself look weak in his own trial by asking for Alif to be kept safe. If the snivelling  little Gizka deserved to live, then he’d find a way.

“No, that’s how it always is, isn’t it? It’s not anyone’s problem until there’s a lightsabre at your throat. Maybe if I’m lucky, Kayin’ll put me out quickly,” Alif said miserably.

He clearly had nothing of value to offer him in exchange for safety. He was so weak, so pathetic, that Zavahier could see no possible use that Alif might be in the future. So why should he put himself at risk just to protect an acolyte who wasn’t strong enough to look after himself? It wasn’t as if anybody else would ever be willing to do the same for Zavahier, was it? Every Sith would always stand alone. Zavahier had learned that quickly enough.

Zyn was standing a short distance away, and as Zavahier approached him, he said, “You don’t have to tell me—I heard the name loud and clear, though I sorely wish I hadn’t: Esorr Kayin.”

That proved that Zyn had been listening in on the entire conversation. It was hard to tell what he thought of Zavahier’s choice of strategy, though. Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe getting the name of the murderer was sufficient to pass the trial.

“Kayin’s master is a Dark Council member… I’d be a fool to oppose him,” Zyn explained. “But anyway, your trial here is done. I will send my commendations to Overseer Harkun. You may return to him now.”

“That’s it? I’m done?” Zavahier said, realising that he was actually a little disappointed. Despite some conflicted feelings about what he’d done and what he was becoming, there was no denying that he’d rather enjoyed that feeling of being in control. Alif’s weakness had been pathetic, and his fear and confusion had been…

Fun.

Yes, that was definitely the right word. It wasn’t the inflicting of pain that Zavahier had enjoyed, but the sheer _terror_ experienced by his victim.

He wanted the whole _galaxy_ to fear him!

“I know, I know,” Zyn said sympathetically. “It’s so hard to stop once you’ve started. Perhaps later, if you survive your trials. It has been most pleasant watching you work, acolyte. Such an interesting strategy! Truly, I wish you the best of luck in your remaining trials.”

It was the first truly warm praise Zavahier had received from anyone in the Academy, and so he left the jails with the rather pleasant feeling of having done well in his trial. He had passed, and he’d done so in a way that had impressed Zyn, which could only be a good thing. While he probably couldn’t honestly say that he’d pushed aside _all_ of the weaknesses that came with being a slave, he thought he’d made the first few steps, and maybe that was what really mattered. If the Sith expected the acolytes to become perfect overnight… well, there wouldn’t be any Sith at all, would there? Learning took time, and the instructors here seemed to understand that.

Well, for the most part, anyway. Harkun was a very notable exception.

And Zavahier had definitely learned some things about himself today, hadn’t he? He was a stronger man now than he had been when he walked into the jails. A better Sith now, too. One more step towards being truly powerful. And… yes, he liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.


	14. True Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier takes control.

After the praise from Zyn, walking back into Harkun’s office was like being thrown into a snowstorm, with a palpable wave of hatred that quickly extinguished his pride in his success in the second trial. For once, however, it seemed he wasn’t the last one to return; Ffon, Balek, Wydr and Gerr were all gathered around Harkun’s desk, but Niloc was conspicuously missing. Yet as Zavahier joined the group, Harkun began speaking.

“Well, well, well. I had been looking forward to cutting another one of you down, but it looks like I’ll be spared the trouble. Unsurprisingly, Niloc has gone missing,” Harkun said coldly. “Also unsurprisingly, Ffon has passed his second trial. It’s only a matter of time before he tramples you all underfoot.”

“I’ll tear you apart where you stand, slave!” Ffon snarled, interrupting Harkun and raising his fist menacingly. He was focused on Zavahier; apparently the other three weren’t worthy of being threatened in such a manner.

Zavahier just stared back at him, tilting his head slightly, and then pointedly gave a big, exaggerated yawn. Was that _really_ supposed to frighten him? Ffon might have been his only _true_ rival here, but Zavahier didn’t really fear the Sith Pureblood’s power. Not when he knew his own drive to succeed was so much stronger.

“Patience, Ffon—an accident in the tombs is much more convincing,” Harkun advised. “Now, it seems our latecomer also passed his trial. Zyn says you handled yourself expertly, and as much as I find this difficult to believe, Lord Zash will be satisfied with his evaluation. Undoubtedly, Zyn helped you in some way—but when you face your next trial, you will not have his help.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’ll be a _big_ problem,” Zavahier said. He knew he still had some way to go before he was truly as powerful as he would have liked, but he also knew that he had taken several very important steps towards overcoming the traits beaten into him by a lifetime of slavery. He knew where he was going now; it was simply a matter of practice. Confusing Alif by making him sing had been greatly entertaining, and Zavahier was eager to employ similar strategies in future. Fortunately, there were still four other acolytes in the group, who would be perfect for that kind of experimentation.

That Balek, Wydr and Gerr were utterly doomed was now very clear. Zavahier knew he had to make use of them while he had the chance. So he was going to make them all think he was completely insane. And he definitely didn’t need Zyn’s help with _that_.

“You will all be notified of your next trial in due course. Now get out, worthless scum,” Harkun said, purposely ignoring Zavahier’s comment.

The group of acolytes all filed out of Harkun’s office. Ffon quickly separated himself from the others, walking away at a brisk pace and leaving the rest of them behind. But that was not a problem, as Zavahier didn’t need Ffon’s involvement in what he was going to do now. He would need a completely different plan for Ffon, since he would be much less easy to manipulate than the others.

“So what did Harkun have all of you doing?” Zavahier asked once Ffon was out of earshot. The group of acolytes continued walking down the corridor together.

“We had to look for artefacts in the Valley of the Dark Lords,” Balek answered.

“Did you find anything?” Zavahier asked.

“Yeah, we all found a couple. Except for Niloc… we’re… not really sure what happened to him,” Balek said.

“I imagine it involved Ffon, some lightning and a weapon,” Zavahier suggested.

“Probably,” Balek agreed, a little uncomfortably. “He’s vicious...”

“What was _your_ trial about? We didn’t see you out in the Valley,” Wydr interrupted.

He thought he was being demanding and authoritative, but he was asking _exactly_ the question that Zavahier wanted to be asked. It was the whole reason he’d started this conversation, to prod the others into asking him about his afternoon in the jails by first asking them about _their_ experiences.

“I had to torture another acolyte,” he said, and watched in satisfaction as the other three acolytes just stared at him in stunned silence. He kept his tone as neutral as possible, neither wanting to sound too proud nor too ashamed of his actions. One of the most important lessons he’d learned so far at the Academy was that regardless of his inner feelings, on the outside he must always be strong and proud and confident. Unless it served his purposes to appear otherwise, of course. Sometimes appearing weak could be useful, when it pushed an opponent into being overconfident.

“They made you _torture_ someone?” Balek was the first one to speak, and he sounded a little horrified.

“Yes,” Zavahier confirmed.

“What was it like?” Gerr asked, and when Balek gave him a dark look, he just added, “We’re probably all going to have to do it at some point. It’s better that we know what to expect, right?”

“It was… like nothing I’ve ever done before,” Zavahier replied, allowing a little vulnerability to slip through his pretence at calm. He wanted them to believe it had been difficult for him; even though he rather doubted there would be any similar trial for them, he wanted them to worry about it anyway. “I didn’t like it… not at first. But then…”

“But then what?” Wydr asked.

“Then I made him sing for my amusement,” Zavahier replied, and he _really_ enjoyed the reaction _that_ got. He’d been building up to it, holding back until one of them asked him, just so that he could see the looks on their faces, somewhere between confusion and horror. And it really helped that Balek had already commented on how vicious Ffon was, because now he could say: “And I’m going to do the same to Ffon. I think he’ll have it coming. Niloc deserved better.”

That _really_ wasn’t what they were expecting to hear.

But that was the whole point.

The more erratic he was, the more they would fear him.

“Yeah, he really did,” Balek said with a nod. Wydr and Gerr didn’t look quite as convinced; while they might agree Niloc’s death had been uncalled for, they were clearly unnerved by Zavahier’s behaviour.

They were silent as they reached the barracks and went inside. Wydr began practising his Force lightning on one of the training dummies, and Gerr started working on his training sabre moves. Ffon was sitting on his bed, studying a datapad, and he didn’t so much as glance at the other acolytes. Balek stayed by Zavahier’s side, and he very much looked like he wanted to talk, opening his mouth only to quickly close it again, unable to say what was on his mind.

It was actually quite annoying.

“What do you want?” Zavahier asked him after letting Balek struggle for a while.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else?” Balek suggested, and Zavahier nodded his agreement. The barracks was no place to try to have a private conversation, and clearly Balek had things to say that he didn’t want any of the others to hear.

They ended up in the Academy’s small cantina, a room with a droid that served drinks, and a number of small round tables. Zavahier and Balek took the table in the far corner. The lighting was a subdued red, and the cheerful music playing in the background provided a little cover for them to speak without being overheard. For a little while, they sat in silence, nursing their beers, before Balek decided it was time to speak.

“I’m worried about you, Ezerdus. You’re a good guy, but…” Balek said.

“But what?” Zavahier asked.

“This place is doing something to you.”

“I’m just doing what I need to do to survive. I didn’t earn my freedom just to die here.” 

“But torturing another acolyte…” Balek said, shaking his head. He still seemed rather aghast that Zavahier had done such a thing.

“I didn’t have a choice. It was my trial,” Zavahier hissed. “If I’d refused, they’d have killed me. What would you have done?”

“But you didn’t have to enjoy it!” Balek’s voice rose a little there, enough to draw a few curious looks from other acolytes also enjoying the cantina’s amenities.

Zavahier waited in silence until the other people in the cantina were no longer looking in his direction. Only then did he answer Balek. “Who said I enjoyed it?” he asked in a low voice.

“ _You_ did. Maybe not in so many words, but you did. You enjoyed it, and you can’t deny it.”

Zavahier opened his mouth to do exactly that, but then stopped himself. Balek might not have been as skilled with the Force as him, but he would still know when Zavahier lied. And really, what was the point of lying? “Well, so what if I did?”

“Don’t you see it? This place is twisting your mind. After everything you’ve been through, how could you enjoy torturing someone else?”

“I don’t recall telling you anything about my past,” Zavahier said coldly.

“You didn’t need to. Everyone knows you were a slave. You were half dead when Wydr and I met you on the transport. And the scars on your neck. You don’t get them like that unless you’ve had a _lot_ of shocks. Somebody really loved hurting you, didn’t they?” Balek asked, his voice filled with the kind of compassion that should never have come from the mouth of a Sith.

Zavahier had been trying to hide his scars – one on each side of his neck – as best he could, by keeping his collar turned up and his hair untied so the loose curls would cover those little knots of scar tissue. The scars on his back, the long thin lines from an electro-whip, were easier to conceal, as long as he never took his robes off while anybody else was watching him. The scars were a constant reminder of where he’d come from, too deeply ingrained from years of mistreatment to ever be healed by kolto, and beyond his financial means to have removed. But in all the sparring with the other acolytes, Balek had apparently seen the ones on his neck anyway.

It was the _pity_ in the man’s voice when he spoke of Zavahier’s suffering at the hands of Rawste that really got to him. That was perhaps the worst thing anybody could ever have inflicted upon him, and it was enough to make Zavahier want to escape the conversation. So he put down his drink and then stood. “We’re done here. Stop prying, Balek. I know what I’m doing,” he said, actually feeling quite annoyed with Balek, and not just for daring to speak openly of the scars on his neck.

“I really hope so, Ezerdus. Because if you’re not careful, you’re going to become a monster,” Balek said miserably.

“I’m going to become Sith,” Zavahier corrected him.

“Are you sure there’s a difference?”

Zavahier didn’t answer. He stalked away, leaving the cantina and heading into the main hall, where he paced around the obelisk of fear. He didn’t need Balek – or anyone else – lecturing him on right and wrong, or whatever it was the other man had been trying to do. He intended to survive this place, and become Lord Zash’s apprentice, and that meant he had to be _strong_. And yes, it meant he needed to enjoy his power, and to not hold back from using it to get results.

Balek was just jealous. And he was afraid. Zavahier was the most powerful acolyte in the group, and he had Lord Zash’s eye; it was no surprise that Balek wanted to find some means of undermining him. Well Zavahier wasn’t going to be manipulated into being anything less than what he was. He knew where the line was; he wasn’t going to become a mindless monster rampaging across the galaxy, without thought or reason.

He would kill when he had to, but he would always have a _reason_.

Still, he supposed Balek’s behaviour proved that his overall plan was working. He wanted to be seen as unpredictable, as someone to be feared. Apparently that had worked a little too well in Balek’s case. That didn’t stop him feeling annoyed, though. But… maybe there was just enough truth in Balek’s words to make Zavahier feel a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t like he was completely blind to the ways in which he’d changed since arriving on Korriban.

And he knew he didn’t want to return to the barracks just yet. He needed time to think.

No, wait. He knew _exactly_ what he needed to do right now. He had to put his anger, his passion, to good use: it was time to _make_ Darth Tarn’s holocron give him the knowledge he wanted. He’d passed his second trial _and_ put some of his weakness behind him. It was time Darth Tarn showed him some respect.

Zavahier left the Academy’s main hall and went out into the Valley of the Dark Lords. Then he went down into the tomb of Ajunta Pall, now easily finding his way through the dark corridors, back to the side chamber where he’d concealed both holocron and amulet. He’d been here every night for the last three weeks. It was no longer frightening to be alone in the tomb. Zavahier removed the stones sealing the cavity in which he’d hidden his treasures, and pulled out first the holocron, then his amulet. He placed the holocron on the floor, and sat down in front of it, the same way he had every night. He held out his hand, directing a jolt of his power into the crystal at the top of the pyramid-shaped holocron.

“Darth Tarn! Show yourself,” he commanded in a sharp voice.

And to his surprise, the hologram of Darth Tarn actually appeared this time. “Oh, it’s you,” the hologram said. “I thought I told you that I won’t share my knowledge with a slave?”

“I’m not a slave. I’m a Sith acolyte, and you _will_ tell me what I want to know,” Zavahier said.

“Will I now?” Tarn asked, amused, before giving Zavahier a speculative look. “Well, you _do_ seem stronger.”

“I passed my second trial. I’m ready.”

“Hmmm… perhaps you are,” Darth Tarn said. “I assume you still wish to strengthen the connection between you and the amulet you found? You still have it?”

“Of course. I was hardly going to give up, was I?” Zavahier asked.

“Other acolytes might have,” the hologram answered.

Struck by an idea, Zavahier asked, “Was your silence a test? To see how determined I was?”

“Yes… and no. I still do not think the power of the Sith belongs in the hands of a slave. But you persisted. You seek to discard weakness and gain strength. This is the mark of a true Sith. Your determination not to take ‘no’ for an answer is part of that. Perhaps it makes you worthy of wielding the power you seek to claim for yourself. So I will teach you what you need to know,” Darth Tarn said, giving him a thin smile.

“Tell me what to do,” Zavahier said, firm and eager. He inched forwards a little, leaning in to pay closer attention to everything Tarn had to say.

“This will require a relatively simple piece of alchemy, combined with a little sorcery. I trust you have a little more understanding of these concepts since the last time we spoke?”

“Yes, Lord Samus explained them to me,” Zavahier confirmed. Samus had described them as innate talents that some Sith possessed an affinity for, but many did not, and thus it wouldn’t be included as part of their training until later. He didn’t think any of the acolytes – not even Zavahier and Ffon – were ready to delve into alchemy and sorcery yet.

And that just made the whole prospect of trying it now – with the guidance of Darth Tarn – all the more appealing.

So Zavahier listened to Tarn’s instructions, and then set about following them. He hadn’t brought the necessary tools with him, as he hadn’t known if Tarn would even speak to him, let alone what was entailed in binding the amulet to him. But he improvised. He sought out a small, jagged piece of stone, and drew it across the palm of his left hand. He hissed softly in pain, and then held out his hand, allowing blood to spill from the wound. Several drops fell onto the amulet’s silver chain, flowing through the individual links, and Zavahier moved his hand slightly so that the next drops landed on the purple crystal. His blood remained on the surface of the crystal for a few moments, before soaking into it, and the rich purple colour darkened into an inky black.

“Good, good,” Tarn said. “Now take the crystal in your hand, and focus your power upon it. Use the passions that give you strength, as much as you can summon.”

There were plenty of those emotions, spanning from Zavahier’s earliest memories to his recent conversation with Balek. Anger, fear, hatred, jealousy, resentment, frustration, guilt. Zavahier had learned how to draw on his negative emotions, but Samus’ lessons had typically involved focusing on just _one_ emotion at a time. Now Zavahier tried to channel them all at once, a complex, swirling mass of passion that was difficult to fully hold onto. Whenever he focused on one, the others slipped away, until he made a greater effort to not think about the exact nature of his emotions, simply allowing himself to feel them, without trying to define them by name.

It didn’t _matter_ if it was anger or fear or hatred.

They were all connected, anyway. Each one flowed into the others, because real power wasn’t in drawing on just _one_ emotion, but in experiencing them all. Some were more useful in battle, but that wasn’t all there was to being Sith. In moments like this, Zavahier needed his full range, everything he was capable of feeling. Then he directed them into the crystal, filling it up with his own blend of emotions, the things that made him _Zavahier_ , and not somebody else. He used the raw power that represented everything he was. Everything he might one day become. Pure passion and power. The future ruler of the galaxy.

Sith.

He could feel the Force more deeply, more fully, than he ever had before. And it was _his_. He wrapped himself around it, claiming it as something that belonged to him. That he had fought hard for. That he deserved.

And he could actually _see_ it. There were waves of dark energy leaving his fingers, curling around the amulet before sinking into the now endlessly black crystal. Similar tendrils of smoky energy rose like steam from his own spilled blood. He thought he could hear something too, a pleasant, enticing melody just on the edge of his hearing, rising and falling in time with the ripples he could see.

It was all beautiful.

He loved it.

That wasn’t a peaceful, gentle emotion, despite the softness often associated with the word ‘love’. It was desire, fierce and possessive in its intensity. Zavahier was drawn to the power he discovered within himself, the things he could see and hear as he delved into the darkest part of his connection to the Force. Rage powered his lightning, but this was something more. Deeper and darker, requiring the essence of his very being, a power driven not just by passion, but by strength of will and force of personality. It was the need to control his entire existence, to exert his will on the galaxy, to use every emotion in his arsenal to make the Force _obey him_.

The power was _his_.

And with it, he bound the amulet to him. Now he could sense the connection he had created, twisting the dark power within the crystal until it resonated not just with the power of the dark side, but his own specific connection to it. The crystal sent out a small burst of energy when it was full, and lightened in colour until it was a slightly darker shade of purple than it had been originally.

The visible waves of energy disappeared, and the music faded from Zavahier’s hearing.

He took a deep breath.

Sought for something to say, but couldn’t quite find the words.

Exactly how could an experience like that be described?

Intense.

Wonderful.

Emotionally draining.

Deeply satisfying.

Yes, all of that, and much more besides. Manifesting his will in such a manner required much more of him than producing lightning or throwing pebbles around did. But there was no denying that it felt _amazing_ to have that kind of power. He could do _anything_.

Zavahier studied the amulet, probing at its power with his mind just as much as he examined it with his eyes. It was truly his now. He could feel it. The power within the crystal was in tune with his own, an extension of himself. He would be able to use that extra strength without fear of losing control or destroying himself. The amulet’s power was his, and his alone.

“That was very nicely done, acolyte, especially for a slave,” Darth Tarn said, sounding genuinely surprised. “You have an affinity for sorcery, I think.”

“I want to do more,” Zavahier said, without hesitation. The waves of dark side energy he’d seen, accompanied by the sound of music, had been utterly enthralling, and he was eager to learn more. It called to him, the promise of power, of reaching his full potential. This was _much_ better than lightsabre combat.

Tarn gave a small laugh. “Yes, the true power of the dark side _can_ be rather enticing. I was like you when I was an acolyte, eager to learn more after my first taste of real Sith magic. Very well, then; I will teach you a little more. Now listen closely...”


	15. A Test Of Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier puts his new powers to the test.

Exhausted but satisfied, Zavahier didn’t return to the barracks until the early hours of the morning. Tarn had guided him through some of the secrets within the holocron; no truly devastating techniques, as Zavahier wasn’t yet powerful enough to actually do any of the more powerful spells, but more of an introduction to the power of rituals and incantations, as well as a few simpler spells that he could try. With Sith sorcery, Zavahier would be capable of almost anything, but for now he had to content himself with knowing what was _possible_. And he could practice delving into that side of himself, the vast upwelling of negative emotions from which he could draw power. One day, he would be able to put that instinctive connection to the dark side to good use.

The galaxy would tremble before his power.

He was, admittedly, a little impatient. It was frustrating to know the power was there, but he was simply not yet strong enough to use it.

But he could touch that vast power; with a little concentration he could see the way it moved, feel each pulsating wave. And he could _hear_ it. That had been something of a surprise to Zavahier; he’d been aware that the Force could be seen, such as the smoky tendrils of energy that surrounded the obelisk in the Academy’s main hall, but he’d never thought there would actually be _music_ within the Force.

But there was, and it was like nothing he had ever heard. It was profoundly beautiful, and full of all the promise of unlimited power. Zavahier thought there couldn’t be anything inherently wrong with anything that sounded so wonderful. It was entrancing. Seductive. He wanted it desperately.

Yet he had to wait.

At least he could now use his amulet. The silver chain hung around his neck, with the purple crystal resting against his chest. He kept it underneath his robes, since he didn’t want anyone to know he had it. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Tarn had explained that many Sith used such artefacts to boost their power, provide protection, or increase their concentration and understanding of the Force. Those Sith would covet his treasure. Others would seek to destroy the amulet to undermine his strength. Still others – typically those with no affinity for Sith sorcery – would look down on him for relying on such objects. But there was no weakness in using the amulet, any more than there was weakness in using a lightsabre or suit of armour. The amulet was a tool like any other, even the Force itself.

Zavahier was able to get only a few hours’ sleep before they all had to be up and about again. There was more training to do, more trials to prepare for. Darth Tarn’s holocron was in his pocket; he had promised to return it to the archives now that he had the knowledge he’d sought. Only now, working on a mere three hours sleep, did Zavahier feel a tinge of regret that he’d stayed up almost all night. But it was worth it. He felt like he was humming with power, and the other acolytes seemed to sense it. Balek, Wydr and Gerr all kept a safe distance from him, as if worried he might explode, and left the barracks at the earliest opportunity.

Ffon was less timid, and instead walked right up to him and asked, “What have you done? Where did you get all that extra power from?” His eyes were narrow as he closely scrutinised Zavahier, as though expecting to _see_ where the greater strength had come from.

“Are you jealous of a slave, Ffon? Whatever would Harkun say? Shall we go and ask him?” Zavahier asked him, unable to resist smiling. Ffon’s emotions, a mixture of envy and fear, were palpable... and very enjoyable. He had done something Ffon hadn’t. Perhaps _couldn_ _’t,_ and that felt very, very good.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this, slave. You mark my words,” Ffon growled, before striding out of the barracks, muttering something about going to Harkun with proof of foul play.

“Where _did_ you get it from?” Karroh asked as he wandered over, though his demeanour spoke more of curiosity than jealousy. But before Zavahier could refuse to answer, he added, “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to tell me. A Sith needs some secrets, after all.”

Zavahier nodded. “Precisely.”

“I’m sure it has absolutely _nothing_ to do with your clandestine visits to the Valley of the Dark Lords in the middle of the night,” Karroh continued casually.

“Absolutely nothing at all,” Zavahier said, well aware that Karroh knew at least a little of the truth… and he didn’t really like that at all. “Next time, I shall make sure an ‘accident’ befalls anyone who follows me.”

“Don’t worry, I only followed you as far as the entrance to the Academy. Your creepy dark rituals are _entirely_ your own business,” Karroh assured him.

“Yes they are,” Zavahier said firmly, with a hint of irritation in his voice. His activities in the tomb of Ajunta Pall really _weren_ _’t_ anyone’s business but his own. Well, perhaps he would concede that Lord Zash might have some right to know what her future apprentice was getting up to, but Zavahier was resolved to keep even her in the dark unless he had no other choice.

After all, she might try to take the amulet away from him. Actually, there was no ‘might’ about it. She _would_ take it for herself, since any and all treasures discovered by acolytes were considered to rightfully belong to the Sith Lord they were training for.

But between Karroh’s interference now, and Balek’s the day before, far too many people were trying to have a say in how Zavahier spent his time and what direction he focused his energies in. It was time to put his foot down. He wasn’t a slave anymore, so nobody had the right to dictate his behaviour.

“You helped me yesterday, and I won’t forget it. But don’t follow me anywhere ever again,” Zavahier said threateningly, taking a step towards Karroh. Sparks came easily to his fingers, and he raised his hand to show them to the other acolyte. He wanted to make sure Karroh knew that they might be informally on civil terms, at least as long as they had no reason to compete against each other, but Zavahier was very much his equal. He would never be Karroh’s underling. “I can look after myself. Don’t forget it. And my rituals aren’t _creepy_.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Karroh said, having the good sense to step back, keeping a respectful distance from Zavahier. “I’m actually impressed you managed to do… whatever it was you did to boost your power like that. Not many acolytes can do _creepy_ dark rituals.”

Suitably placated, Zavahier let his sparks dissipate into the air. As far as he had anyone in the Academy that he could talk to as an equal, Karroh was definitely it, so he didn’t want to push him _too_ far away. Just enough to make it clear that they were on the same standing. “You really think rituals are creepy?” he asked.

“Well, yeah. I prefer the straightforward use of a lightsabre. That seems more practical than messing around with powers I don’t understand,” Karroh explained.

“That’s why I like them. Getting in touch with my own power, finding out just what I can do…” Zavahier said. “You can’t be strong without a weapon in your hand. I need to find my strength within myself.”

“I understand that. If anything, it proves we don’t need to be enemies.” 

“Yes, I can see the value in having you around to serve as a meat shield, so I can concentrate on using the Force _properly_ while you swing a weapon around,” Zavahier said. He was quite certain that wasn’t at all what Karroh had meant, but if Karroh was going to describe his powers as creepy, then Zavahier had the right to tease him about relying on a weapon. “And you’re just scared I’ll use my immense power on _you_ unless you compliment me enough.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

But the idea of combining their forces in such a way _did_ have some sense to it, with Karroh drawing the attention of their enemies by engaging them in a duel, giving Zavahier the time and space to work on the gestures and incantations required for Sith magic without interruption. What he had learned about Sith sorcery told him that remaining focused was very important, and trying to defend himself against a physical attack while constructing a spell with words and gestures would be very challenging.

That would actually be a good reason to practice a little before he tried it on Ffon or one of the other acolytes in their next training session. One of the spells Tarn had taught him seemed like it should be simple enough. It could be cast quickly, and while not directly destructive, it would still serve a vital purpose.

Now that he had so much more power at his disposal, he was eager to put it to use. 

“Will you spar with me?” Zavahier asked. “There’s something I would like to try, and I think I can make it work.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Karroh said slowly. “It’s going to be dark and creepy, isn’t it?”

“Only if it works,” Zavahier said. “You’re made of sterner stuff than the others, so you’re less likely to be permanently traumatised or go insane.”

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” Karroh replied. “Very well, let’s go.”

And with that, Karroh backed up several more paces, and Zavahier did the same. This room was as good as any in which to spar, especially with no other acolytes to get in the way. Karroh drew his weapon, a solid looking Sith warblade that looked like it could deal a lot of damage. Zavahier had forgotten that Overseer Tremel’s group of acolytes had earned more powerful weapons. That thing would _hurt_ if Karroh successfully landed a blow.

But it was too late to back out now. And Zavahier was no coward. Karroh wouldn’t kill him, and not only because they had resolved to be civil to one another. Zavahier had seen for himself the results of unauthorised murders in the Academy. He reached for his own training blade, though he didn’t expect to need it. If Karroh was going to play rough, then so was he, and that meant relying on his other skills.

Karroh didn’t give a warning before he attacked. He simply charged at Zavahier with his warblade carried high, ready to swing it when he got within striking range.

But Zavahier didn’t wait to meet the other acolyte’s charge. He sprang away to the side, and sent a small shock of electricity at Karroh, hoping to slow him down. It worked, but it only bought him a few seconds before Karroh charged at him again. Once more, Zavahier dodged out of the way. But he was very much on the run now. And he couldn’t try the spell unless he had enough time to actually perform the incantation. He sent a more substantial blast of lightning at Karroh, but it grounded on the other man’s weapon, which he raised just in time to deflect the lightning away from his body.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Zavahier said. He’d never seen anyone deflect Force lightning like that, and until now, he’d had no idea it was even possible.

“It takes good timing,” Karroh replied. Left unsaid was the fact that Karroh was almost certainly ahead of Zavahier in training; he must have had tutors prior to arriving on Korriban, much as Ffon had done. It definitely gave him an advantage here. He moved quicker than any of the other acolytes Zavahier had ever sparred with.

Zavahier was struggling just to avoid being hit. Yet he would never ask Karroh to slow down or take it easy on him. If he couldn’t win through his own strength and determination, then he didn’t deserve to. Again he dodged Karroh’s rush towards him, but more narrowly this time. But it also meant Karroh couldn’t dodge or deflect his lightning. The spark of purple electricity struck the other man head on, paralysing him for several moments.

This was Zavahier’s chance; he raised his hand and gestured with his fingers, feeling the strength of the Force rippling around him, bending to his will. He spoke the words of the incantation: “ _Redis'tsrove_!” And he concentrated, channelling the full force of his anger and fear into the illusion he was trying to create.

The result was a sibilant whisper, audible to Zavahier as well as to Karroh, though Zavahier sensed that what he heard was merely a shadow of the true effect. Karroh would hear it as a dark, malevolent voice speaking behind him, and he turned his head sharply towards it. “Who’s there?”

He spun around, trying to identify the source of the voice, and as he did so, Zavahier struck him with another spark of lightning. Karroh yelped in a mixture of surprise and pain, whirling around again. Before Zavahier could react, Karroh swung his warblade at him, quickly and aggressively, and caught him across his chest and shoulder, only narrowly missing the chain of the amulet hidden beneath his robes. Zavahier’s concentration shattered, the dark whispering voice faded away, and the lightning brewing at his fingertips vanished with an audible crack. He fell backwards onto the floor, and blood welled up from the long wound running from the top of his left shoulder and diagonally across his chest.

Karroh swore loudly and darted to his side, crouching down next to him. “Damn, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry,” he apologised, hauling Zavahier to his feet.

“Should have dodged,” Zavahier answered. He was forced to lean against Karroh’s side just to stay upright.

“No, I shouldn’t have hit you that hard, especially since you’re little _and_ your concentration was divided. It was that damned voice. It was all around me and I acted on instinct. How did you _do_ that?” Karroh said.

“Well, at least I know it worked,” Zavahier commented dryly, trying without much success to see the bright side of this. But his chest was burning with pain, and he was starting to feel lightheaded as the blood continued to pour from the wound. Without Karroh’s support, he thought he would probably collapse.

“I knew it wasn’t real, but still... I never thought you could make something that powerful,” Karroh said, shaking his head. “Come on, let’s get you to the med bay.”

Karroh helped Zavahier through the Academy’s corridors to the small room on the other side where the medical bay was located. The doctor on duty had the tired, harried look of someone who dealt with a _lot_ of training related injuries, and had largely despaired of hoping that Sith could be dissuaded from constantly trying to kill each other. He’d merely glanced at Zavahier and Karroh at first, before realising that Zavahier’s injuries were more than the standard bruises and strained muscles.

“What happened?” he asked brusquely as he pushed Zavahier down onto the nearest bed.

“We were sparring,” Karroh answered. “Things got a little out of hand.”

“A little! How many times do you acolytes have to be told not to kill each other within the Academy walls?” the doctor snapped. He began cutting away Zavahier’s torn robes in order to access the injury.

“It really was an accident. He wasn’t trying to kill me,” Zavahier said through gritted teeth as the doctor began pressing hard against his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

The doctor continued muttering to himself about careless, violent Sith acolytes, but his disapproval was quickly eclipsed by the arrival of Overseers Harkun and Tremel. Their angry yells – mostly focused on Karroh’s recklessness, and in Harkun’s case, Zavahier’s failure to die like the worthless slave he was – attracted several other Sith, who all assumed that this had been an attempt at murder. Karroh kept insisting that it wasn’t, and Zavahier, though struggling to remain conscious, backed up his story as best he could: they had been sparring, allowing Zavahier the chance to try a new technique, which had proved so effective that Karroh had struck back too hard.

They both clung to that story, repeating it over and over, and the Overseers had to accept that it must be the truth… though it barely seemed to make a difference. The fact that Karroh had used his warblade on an unarmoured and inexperienced acolyte was not easily forgiven. Neither was Zavahier’s use of a powerful illusion that he certainly shouldn’t have been playing with so early in his training. That was deemed to be the cause of Karroh’s too aggressive attack, a bad reaction to an inexpertly applied mind altering spell. Zavahier’s amulet was discovered and confiscated, despite his protests, as was Darth Tarn’s holocron.

And the Overseers kept shouting. Though they all agreed both acolytes had been incredibly reckless and irresponsible, they couldn’t seem to decide on how best to deal with the situation. Karroh was punished with a blast of lightning from one of the assistant Overseers, before Tremel interceded on his behalf. Harkun angrily declared that the doctor should let Zavahier die, only to be overruled by an unfamiliar Sith, a pretty young woman with short blonde hair.

“Don’t hurt Karroh. It wasn’t his fault,” Zavahier said, trying to force some steadiness into his voice, but it was too hard. “I _asked_ him to spar with me.” The words were too quiet, his voice too unsteady. He wasn’t even sure anybody was listening to anything he said. But he didn’t want Karroh to be hurt – or even killed – because of him. Despite Karroh’s original dismissal of any formal terms for their relationship, Zavahier considered him a friend. No one who _wasn_ _’t_ his friend would have brought him here when he was hurt. Any other acolyte would have left him to bleed to death on the floor, and found some way to cover it up, rather than try to save his life.

The gathered Sith were still shouting when Zavahier lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although we know that Sith sorcery consists of spells with both spoken words and gestures, I had trouble finding out exactly what they are, aside from a handful that are actually named. When I originally wrote this chapter - so long ago now! - I just made mention of the fact that Zavahier used the words. But later, as I continued the story and Zavahier used sorcery more, I found it was necessary to create incantations for the Sith magic he used. I found an English-Sith dictionary (though I'm not sure how canon it is) and created a whole list of them, and then went back and edited this chapter with the specific spell. Thus, "Redis'tsrove" isn't just a random bunch of letters; it has a specific meaning in the Sith language that goes along with its effects when used.


	16. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier faces the consequences of his recklessness.

When Zavahier woke, he found himself floating in a kolto tank. Given that he’d expected not to wake at all, the fact that he was still alive was a good sign. Probably. But it didn’t stop the pulse of fear that rippled through him. The tube surrounded him on all sides, and he was completely submerged in kolto. His shoulder and chest throbbed with pain, but when he looked down at himself, he saw the wound was a clean, straight cut, and the edges had already started knitting together. But it was still a terrible, painful injury that would take a long time to heal. Kolto aided the healing process, but it couldn’t make serious injuries like this one disappear overnight.

He was alone in the medical bay aside from the on duty doctor, a younger man than the doctor that had been here when he first arrived.

How long had he been here?

And more importantly, when could he get out? With that closed–in, trapped feeling rising quickly, he reached towards the front of the tank, trying to find the place where the panels would slide away and let him out. When he didn’t find it, he began scrabbling at the glass, and then the top of the tank. His heart pounded in his chest, and the breaths he drew through the breathing apparatus were short and sharp.

The doctor noticed his panic and rushed over to the tank, tapping several buttons on the control panel, and trying to urge Zavahier to relax. He didn’t listen, and kept struggling… until a heavy feeling of drowsiness fell upon him, the result of a sedative added to the mixture of kolto and other drugs.

Zavahier drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like forever, drugged into a deep sleep to prevent him from hurting himself further in his fear of being trapped in the tank. It was in fact a whole week, with more hours of alertness as the days went on. The medical personnel couldn’t keep him sedated all the time, and by the sixth day, he was growing restless and increasingly distressed by the close confines of the kolto tank, not to mention fed up of drinking the nutrient broth fed to him by the apparatus covering his mouth.

But it wasn’t until he was allowed to leave the kolto tank on the seventh day that he realised just how much everything still hurt. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive, and he really wasn’t sure if they meant he’d been fortunate to survive the injury itself, or lucky not to have been executed by Overseer Harkun.

It was probably both, now that he thought about it.

He still felt tired and drained when he left the medical bay. His wound ached, and though the kolto had indeed done a good job in accelerating his body’s natural healing ability, he hadn’t stayed in the kolto tank long enough for the injury to fully heal. Zavahier would be in pain for a while longer, and he would be left with a scar. He had been given the treatment needed to keep him alive, but beyond that, he was on his own. He was a mere acolyte, and if he wasn’t strong enough to succeed, then he would die. That had never seemed more likely than it did today, when he was told to return to his training.

He rejoined the other acolytes in the training room, where Lord Samus was once again instructing them in the application of the Force. That was something of a relief for Zavahier; Force training meant he wouldn’t need to engage in any intense sparring. He just needed to avoid any lightning and objects thrown his way.

That proved to be difficult. Samus was displeased to see him, and instructed Wydr and Gerr to both attack him at the same time. He was shocked several times, falling to his knees when the pain overwhelmed him.

“Get up if you want to live, slave” Samus ordered.

Zavahier forced himself back to his feet, trembling with pain and a not insignificant amount of fear. Maybe he’d been kept alive solely so that his punishment – death – could be drawn out over days, or even weeks.

He couldn’t let them break him.

Gerr moved to strike him with another bolt of lightning. Zavahier didn’t feel able to dodge, so he took the blast. He let the pain fuel his fear, drawing on the power of his own terror; a mixed swirl of telekinesis and lightning lifted Gerr off his feet, trapping him in a fierce whirlwind of Force power.

A second whirlwind was directed at Wydr, trapping him as well.

But then Zavahier stopped, panting from the exertion and his shoulders hunched over. The power of the Force was on his side, but his body just didn’t want to cooperate. A barrage of lightning from Ffon struck him and he cried out in pain, dropping to his knees.

“Get up!” Samus snapped at him.

The instructor had previously been somewhat friendly towards Zavahier, encouraging him to explore his power, praising him for being the first to learn how to create a whirlwind. And of course, he’d advised Zavahier on the amulet, and loaned him Darth Tarn’s holocron. So his anger now seemed... incongruous with his previous behaviour. Had he gotten in trouble for delivering into Zavahier’s hands the very power that had led to the sparring session getting out of control? Was he angry that Zavahier had snatched at power that he was deemed not yet ready for?

Or was it just about making an example of him to the other acolytes?

Zavahier didn’t know. Nor did he care. Ffon’s lightning dissipated for a few moments, and Zavahier started to climb to his feet. But he only got half way up before Ffon struck him again.

“Get up, slave,” Samus said again.

Zavahier tried to rise, and again he was hit with a savage jolt of electricity from Ffon’s fingertips. The Sith Pureblood had never looked so delighted.

“Do you want to live, slave? Get up!” Samus repeated.

“Enough!” Zavahier roared, and a great surge of lightning left both his hands, followed by a wave of pure Force energy that threw Ffon away from him. Balek and Samus were caught in the blast as well, and were pushed back against the walls.

“If you’re going to kill me, then just do it!” he shouted as he lurched to his feet. He had to put his hand against the wall to keep himself from falling again, but at least he was standing. “I will _not_ be your plaything!”

“Oh, we’re not even slightly through with you, slave,” Samus told him coldly as he picked himself up off the floor.

Yet despite his words, he didn’t order any of the acolytes to attack Zavahier again, perhaps because another shock might prove enough to kill him. He was, after all, only barely standing, the effort of keeping himself upright proving enough of a strain that he was now soaked with sweat and panting heavily. But it seemed he’d earned the right to live for at least another day.

“You’re all dismissed,” Samus said, gesturing for the five acolytes to leave the training room.

Ffon did so… but only after giving Zavahier one more tiny shock, just to deal a little more pain. Balek, Wydr and Gerr left together as a huddled and uneasy looking group. Zavahier hesitated, hanging back in the hopes of speaking to Lord Samus, but the look on the instructor’s face was enough to tell him not to push it any further.

So Zavahier left the training room, almost wishing he could go back into the kolto tank again – which in itself was rather telling, because the narrow, confining tank felt far too much like a cage. But at least it would have been safe. Instead he made his way back towards the barracks. He didn’t dare to speak to anyone, and when he went inside, the other acolytes ignored him.

This was actually something of a relief, because he didn’t want to talk right now. He just wanted to sleep. With his whole body screaming in protest, he scrambled up onto his bed. The top bunk that had been so appealing before now seemed impossibly high. Ffon sniggered at him as he struggled to pull his own weight up, scrambling clumsily where normally it would be an easy leap. But he made it, and then just collapsed onto the mattress. His own weight pressing down on his chest was painful, so he rolled onto his side, and then pulled the pillow towards him, falling asleep almost as soon as he buried his face into it.

~*~*~*~

Zavahier really wasn’t sure how he managed to survive the next few days. Samus was no more forgiving during the following training sessions, and Zavahier soon learned that it wasn’t a personal grudge, as Overseer Rance was every bit as harsh during their sabre training sessions. On two occasions in as many days, Zavahier had to return to the medical bay when the gruelling ordeal Rance put him through reopened his wound. The doctors were not happy about this, but they had no power to overrule the Sith.

Nothing Rawste had done to Zavahier could even begin to compare to this. Yet somehow he found just enough strength to survive each day. It was hard. Unbelievably hard. It felt like he would never _not_ be in pain, yet his connection to the Force, the raw savagery of his own emotions, provided him with sufficient power to keep himself alive.

Well, that and spending as much time sleeping as possible.

Ffon revelled in it, of course, but after several days of being repeatedly ordered to hurt him, Balek was beginning to look very unhappy, and even Wydr and Gerr seemed increasingly uncomfortable. Yet they dared not refuse to obey.

It was four days before Zavahier and Karroh encountered each other again, since whenever Zavahier had been in the barracks, he’d done little more than sleep. But when they met just outside the barracks following one of Zavahier’s training sessions with Samus, a look alone served as communication between them. They walked back the way they’d come, but turned left instead of right, heading out of the Academy.

Zavahier took the chance to study Karroh, and realised that although he didn’t have Zavahier’s injuries, he had nevertheless also been having a rough time recently. He looked tired and harassed, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his usual smile was entirely absent.

They were silent for a long time, until they reached the entrance of an almost completely collapsed tomb. It served as a quiet, secluded place where they could sit down and talk without being overheard, unseen by anyone who happened to be exploring the Valley of the Dark Lords. Zavahier gratefully flopped down onto a large slab of rock, lying down on his back, utterly exhausted, while Karroh sat down opposite him.

“You look as bad as I feel,” Karroh said at last.

“Why are they doing this?” Zavahier asked. “I’ve been tortured before, but nothing like this.”

It was an odd thing to admit out loud, because Zavahier had never been comfortable openly discussing the things Rawste had done to him even amongst the other slaves, and he had _never_ spoken of it to anyone at the Academy. It would have just made him seem weak. It might be publicly known that he had previously been a slave, but the specific details were private.

Yet right at this moment, Zavahier trusted Karroh enough to believe that he wouldn’t use that knowledge against him.

And what Samus and Rance were putting him through now _was_ different. Rawste had used the shock collar as a means of subduing him, and for punishing him.

But this was more like…

A trial, maybe.

A challenge.

It wasn’t about the pain that was inflicted, but about whether Zavahier was able to endure it and prove that he deserved to live.

Even realising that, however, didn’t make the ordeal any less gruelling.

“I don’t know. It’s either punishment or some kind of test, but I can’t decide which,” Karroh replied.

Zavahier nodded. “I thought that as well. What I can’t work out is whether I’m supposed to survive or not.” He sensed a prickle of life and movement nearby, and rolled over onto his side, focusing his attention on the solitary Pelko Bug that crawled along the slab of rock. They usually travelled in swarms beneath the sand, attacking and consuming weaker acolytes, but they instinctively avoided those strong enough to defend themselves. The appearance of a Pelko Bug now seemed an adequate reflection of Zavahier’s weakened state. But this bug was alone, and it was missing a leg, hobbling along on just five. Zavahier reached out, and it crawled onto his hand. He rolled onto his back again, holding his hand up to watch the Pelko Bug trundle across his fingers.

“I think that might be the test part. If you survive, you pass,” Karroh said.

“How are you finding it?” Zavahier asked, looking away from the Pelko Bug to focus on his friend.

“Easier than you, I think. Tremel has been stopping the instructors from doing anything _too_ bad, and I have a few advantages over you: I’m not injured, I’m trained in defending myself… and I’m not lowborn. But the Overseers were very angry. I think without Tremel’s involvement, they would have killed me,” Karroh explained. He was still well-dressed in black and gold robes, making a greater effort to preserve the appearance of being untroubled than Zavahier had been. But his brows were furrowed, betraying how tired and unhappy he really was. “Thankfully, Tremel convinced them that I was one of the most talented acolytes to come through the Academy in the last hundred years, and killing me would be a waste.” Despite everything, there was a little pride in Karroh’s voice as he said this.

“Lucky you,” Zavahier said dryly. He held up his other hand, allowing the Pelko Bug to walk onto it, admiring the little creature as it walked ever onwards, from one hand to the other, and back again. It was jet black, like all Pelko Bugs were, but now that he studied it more closely, he could see the little striations of deep blue and green across its carapace, shining with a subtle iridescence when the light caught it. Its feelers were almost as long as its body, and it waved them constantly, picking up on sounds or pheromones… or maybe even the Force. And on its little head were tiny little eyes, like minuscule gemstones glinting in the light.

It really was rather beautiful.

“I’m guessing you don’t remember, but Lord Zash said pretty much the same about you,” Karroh remarked. “Harkun wasn’t happy, especially when she ordered the medical personnel to do everything they could to save your life.”

Zavahier was silent for a little while as he cast his mind back to the day he’d been injured. He tried to remember the various Sith that had been there in the medical bay before he lost consciousness, but while he could remember them being there, he couldn’t recall what they looked like or what they’d said. “I can’t remember. It’s all pretty hazy.”

That was actually a little irritating, because it meant that even though he’d now actually been in Lord Zash’s presence, he _still_ didn’t really know who she was. He supposed he should be grateful that she’d wanted him to live.

“If we’re so special, why are they putting us through this?" Zavahier asked at last. “Lord Zash organised a special trial for me, you know. The day before—“

“I imagine that she ordered you be punished, but Harkun is the one pulling the strings,” Karroh replied. “But I don’t think it can carry on forever. Only until your next trial, I think.”

Zavahier said nothing, but privately he was wondering how he was supposed to pass his third trial when he was being prevented from fully recovering from his injury. He certainly didn’t feel up to exploring any tombs at the moment, and he was certain that Harkun would use the trial as a means of getting him killed.

“Don’t worry. It’s my fault you’re in this mess, so if your next trial involves any fighting, you can count on me to back you up,” Karroh assured him.

“How is it you always know what I’m thinking?” Zavahier asked.

“The Force, of course!” Karroh said with a laugh. “It’s actually not hard to sense what others are feeling, and then extrapolating what they’re thinking based on what they’re feeling is a simple matter.”

“I can do the first part. Everyone’s feelings are just.... there. I can feed off their emotions, increasing my power, but I can’t sense the thoughts underneath,” Zavahier said.

“You probably _can_ , just not consciously,” Karroh replied. “You’ll get the hang of it. It takes time and experience.”

“How long _have_ you been Sith?” Zavahier asked. He knew that Karroh had arrived on Korriban about a week before he had, but it was also obvious to him that Karroh had received training prior to becoming an acolyte here.

“Well, my Force-sensitivity was discovered when I was very young. I actually don’t remember the first time I used it, which should tell you how young I was. My father was a Sith too, but he was away fighting in the war, so we didn’t see him very often,” Karroh replied. “So my mother hired tutors to teach me the basics. I probably wouldn’t have ever come here to train at all, because the Korriban Academy is very prestigious, and my family wasn’t really noteworthy enough to get me a place. But Overseer Tremel was a friend of my father’s, and when it turned out he had one more space in his group, he offered it to me. Which I was happy to accept. There are several Sith Academies throughout the Empire, and many more Sith are trained by family members or private tutors. But Korriban is the best.”

“If that is the case, why are there so many former slaves here?” Zavahier asked. He’d met many Sith who seemed appalled by his presence at the Sith Academy, and he’d always thought it was just because he’d once been a slave. But from what Karroh said, there was a little more to it: it was the presence of slaves in a place that was traditionally considered to be highly desirable. There were probably Sith thinking that more promising Force-sensitive youths were denied a place at Korriban’s Academy because of the presence of slaves.

“It’s complicated. Obviously a lot of Sith were killed in the last war, many of them before they had children. So the Force-sensitive slaves are needed, but nobody really wants to be responsible for training them. Until Lord Zash – she’s the senior instructor, you know—”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Well, she decided that slaves could be trained here, so here is where they come, and she won’t let any of the Overseers refuse to train them. But a lot of the Overseers dislike having to do it, as I’m certain you’ve noticed,” Karroh explained, giving Zavahier a rueful smile.

“Yes, I had picked up one or two hints. Harkun in particular has been quite subtle about his prejudice,” Zavahier said. Now that Karroh had explained it in greater depth, Zavahier couldn’t help but feel a little resentful of the Empire’s attitude towards former slaves; it wanted to make use of his strength, as long as nobody had to actually acknowledge his presence or personhood.

“Well, if you have enough energy for sarcasm, you should survive whatever Harkun throws at you!” Karroh said.

“You clearly don’t know me very well. I _always_ have the energy for sarcasm,” Zavahier said, before laughing for what felt like the first time in a long while. He was pleased when Karroh joined in as well. The Pelko Bug on his fingers gave an odd hissing sound, as though disapproving of their amusement.

“So what happened to your father?” Zavahier asked after their laughter died down. He had noted Karroh’s use of the word ‘was’.

“He died during the Sacking of Coruscant. Killed by a Jedi during the battle in the temple.”

“Oh…” Zavahier said, a little uncertainly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I know the name of the Jedi, and one day I’ll find him. I’ll have my revenge,” Karroh said firmly, with a surge of anger and a malevolent gleam in his eye.

“Well, if you need anyone to do some creepy dark rituals to make sure the Jedi suffers, you know who to ask.” 

“I certainly do. His name’s Balek, right? Big guy, kind of timid?” 

“Yes, but that’s all an act. He’s actually _really_ scary,” Zavahier said, finding that he rather enjoyed Karroh’s sense of humour. It didn’t make everything he’d endured over the last few days worth it, of course, but it was nice to enjoy someone’s company. To feel like he didn’t have to be constantly proving himself. It provided a bit of a reprieve from the constant harassment and derision he’d been subjected to since arriving at the Academy.

Did that make him weak?

Zavahier was sure it did, at least in the eyes of other Sith. Perhaps even in Karroh’s eyes. But he didn’t care. The life of a Sith seemed to be a lonely one, but right now, he _needed_ Karroh’s friendship.

That did beg the question, though: “Are _all_ the slave acolytes like Balek and the others?”

“Well, _you_ _’re_ not,” Karroh replied. “But yeah, most of them are a bit hopeless. There’s a few in my group as well, and only Vemrin is a worthy rival. Even then, he has nowhere near your power. But the Sith trials have always been like that, slaves or no slaves. I think the official statistic is only one in ten acolytes survive the trials and become apprentices, even when the Academy was filled with acolytes from powerful Sith families.”

“So basically, the safe bet is that we’re both doomed?” 

Karroh nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s reassuring,” Zavahier said. “But Harkun’s been disappointed before, and I’ll be happy to disappoint him again.”

“That’s the spirit,” Karroh said encouragingly. “Trusting your own strength is half the battle.”

That made sense, certainly, and Zavahier just rested in silence, feeling utterly conflicted. His instincts said that he ought to be wary of just how helpful Karroh was being. The rest of him was just glad to have a friend. It was better than being alone. And he would keep his beautiful five-legged Pelko Bug, if he could find a jar for it to live in.


	17. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting caught breaking Academy rules, Zavahier needs to prove his loyalty to the Empire.

Over the next few weeks, Zavahier really needed those rare occasions when he and Karroh went out of the Academy just to spend a few hours in seclusion from the rest of the galaxy. Mostly they just talked, since Zavahier lacked the strength to do much else, but Karroh also did some gentle training with him, focusing on those skills that were considered less useful than purely destructive uses of the Force; how to read emotions and thoughts more clearly, how to use the Force to boost his innate speed and agility, and how to block blaster fire and Force powers using his weapon. That latter skill was taught _very_ carefully, since both Zavahier and Karroh knew if they managed to hurt each other again, they probably _would_ be killed.

But there was no denying that they were now allies. Their punishments at the hands of their instructors were difficult ordeals to live through, but that adversity only served to galvanise their friendship. Karroh was the only person in the Academy that Zavahier knew he could trust, and he sensed the feeling was mutual.

While Zavahier knew that for a Sith, having such a connection would be considered a weakness, he thought that was only because so many Sith seemed to fear trusting anyone but themselves. Surely, then, having an ally he did not need to fear betrayal from was perhaps an advantage? Passion was vital for every Sith, yet the emphasis was always on their negative emotions. Anger, fear, hatred. These were undeniably powerful, as it had been largely Zavahier’s fear that allowed him to survive these last few weeks. But there was power in other emotions too. It was a different kind of power, yes, but no less worthy of his respect.

They kept a good physical distance between them most of the time, just to make sure nobody realised how close they had become. Friendship was as valid an emotion as any, but that didn’t mean they should broadcast it more than necessary. So Zavahier spent much of his time alone. Even Balek tended to avoid him now. His main companion was the Pelko Bug, kept in a small jar with a few centimetres of sand in the bottom for him to burrow in. He named it Dran, which meant ‘sand’ in Ancient Sith.

When he was still weak from his brush with death, Zavahier had appreciated the solitude and privacy, but as his strength returned, it began to feel more like he was being ostracised even by Balek, Wydr and Gerr, who he had previously been on reasonably civil terms with. But Zavahier supposed weeks of being commanded to torture him had ruined that. Now they could not look at him without seeing their victim, and their feelings were a mixture of revulsion and guilt.

It was a valuable lesson Zavahier had learned: all other Sith were his enemies.

Except Karroh, of course. But he was very much the exception to what was otherwise an almost universal rule.

Zavahier would need to find some way of forcing the other acolytes to respect him again, rather than to continue viewing him as their weakened victim. Fortunately, his original plan was probably still a viable one: a combination of strength in the Force and the fear created by his unpredictable behaviour. He would terrorise them into submission, and they would regret every shock, every throw, every slash of a training blade.

On a rational level, Zavahier knew Balek, Wydr and Gerr hadn’t had a choice; they had been ordered to hurt him, and if they had refused, they would have been tortured or even killed themselves. Yet that didn’t matter. Zavahier had lost all desire to avoid killing them if it was at all possible. Just as this whole experience had strengthened his friendship with Karroh, it had made him truly hate the other acolytes. It had opened a savagery in his heart that until now, he’d merely skirted around. Now he dove into it with a new determination. He wanted vengeance for the suffering he had endured at the hands of his fellow acolytes. They would all suffer and _die_ by his power.

If he ever received the opportunity, Harkun, Samus and Rance would all die too.

He would never again allow himself to be the victim of such mistreatment. They had all taken advantage of his physical weakness while he was injured, and in doing so, they had slowed his recovery _and_ made him feel like a slave again.

And he _hated_ them for it.

That hatred was power. Zavahier’s Force powers continued to grow, outstripping his physical recovery by a wide margin.

He took to exploring the Valley of the Dark Lords when he had no other training to pursue. He could practice the skills Karroh had taught him, and he began experimenting with another means of protecting himself: a defensive bubble of lightning that surrounded him on all sides. He had yet to test it in an actual fight, but he was confident it would serve him well.

One morning, he left the Academy for another excursion into the Valley, only to encounter a Sith and a handful of Imperial officers rounding up a few acolytes. Each was bound with Force suppressing manacles and forced down to their knees, while one of the officers scanned them. Curious, yet wary, Zavahier approached; he wanted to know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to let them do the same thing to him. He would fight to his dying breath before anyone would chain him like that.

The Sith saw him, and called out, “Stand and account for yourself, acolyte. Let’s see what you’re made of.” His tone was cold, yet subtly confrontational.

Still uncertain of the man’s intentions, Zavahier moved a little closer, but he was tensed, poised to spring away if the Sith gave any signs of attacking him.

“I look at you, and I wonder... Are you among the truly loyal, or do you hide treason in your heart?” the Sith asked.

“Who are you?” Zavahier asked suspiciously. He wasn’t going to answer any questions until he knew what was going on.

“I am Inquisitor Arzanon, head of Academy security, and do not think you can so easily deflect my question,” the Sith said, frowning at Zavahier, as if suspecting him of being less than loyal.

Well, was that so unreasonable, given what he’d been through recently? Zavahier’s punishment for his unauthorised use of a mind altering incantation, and for his possession of an ancient artefact that he was deemed to have no right to, was still ongoing, though with less intensity than before now that he was better able to defend himself. He currently had little loyalty to the Sith, now viewing them more firmly as enemies than he ever had before.

“Fine, I’ll answer,” Zavahier said irritably. “I give my loyalty where it’s earned. You’re a fool if you expect blind obedience.”

“Defiance of authority is a hallmark of the immature... and the subversive. I recommend you reconsider your attitude,” Arzanon said, with the warning clear in his voice.

“Do you always make a habit of accusing strangers of treachery and sedition?” Zavahier asked, feeling it wasn’t an unfair question. He’d never met this man before, and while he hated almost everyone in the Academy, treason was another matter entirely.

“You are no stranger to me. I know everyone in this Academy – even overly ambitious former slaves who aren’t careful enough with their secrets,” Arzanon told him. “You would do well to learn something from the more obedient acolytes, lest your insolence be mistaken for disloyalty. You may not survive your punishment next time.”

“I’ll defend the Empire when necessary,” Zavahier said firmly, knowing the other Sith would sense his honesty in those words. But he would never declare himself loyal, nor would he promise mindless obedience.

One of the officers, a young woman in a smart uniform bearing the insignia of Imperial Intelligence, turned away from the cowering acolytes in order to speak to Zavahier. “Then you understand the need to protect the Empire. There is one threat we must remain ever vigilant against: those within our own ranks who undermine and weaken us.”

“Intelligence reports indicate this Valley shelters traitors – acolytes who seek to destroy our Emperor’s carefully built order and replace it with their own weak-minded heresies,” Arzanon continued. There was a subtle warning there, similar to the one Arzanon had already given him; Zavahier should be careful in his actions, to avoid being tarred with the same brush as the seditious acolytes lurking in the Valley of the Dark Lords.

“They hide among the faithful and obedient, but make no mistake – they will destroy us all, given the chance,” the Intelligence officer added.

“We’ve watched as these traitors scuttle about this Valley and plot against us. We know their faces and their names,” Arzanon said. “It is the Emperor’s will that the sands of Korriban be slaked with the blood of these traitors. Prove your allegiance by executing them.”

Zavahier recognised that offer for what it was: a test of his loyalty, and a chance to prove his worth despite his prior recklessness. He’d been made to suffer, and thus given a reason to become disloyal. This was, he sensed, his chance to demonstrate that no further punishment was needed. A show of obedience was required of him. So he placed his hand on his chest and gave a short bow of respect.

“It would be my honour to destroy these traitors,” he said. He couldn’t quite bring himself to add the words ‘my lord’, even though they were called for when interacting with a much higher ranking Sith. He was willing to prove his loyalty, and he did not object to following orders that suited his goals. But he would never be a slave again, and that was how he perceived obedience without question.

“In serving me, you serve the Emperor. Remember that as you exterminate those vermin in the Valley,” Arzanon told him.

“I’ll give you the means to identify the traitors. Eliminate enough of them to prove your loyalty, and then return to Inquisitor Arzanon,” the Intelligence officer said, handing a datapad and a scanning device to Zavahier.

“I will be watching your progress with great interest. Go now. See that the Emperor’s will be done,” Arzanon said. It was another reminder that this was as much a test for Zavahier as it was an attempt to execute traitors. After all, the number of acolytes Arzanon had already rounded up proved that he was more than capable of completing this task himself.

But Arzanon needed proof of his loyalty. Zavahier both resented it and revelled in it. He hated that his willingness to serve the Empire was in question, but he was eager for the chance to take out some of his many frustrations on other acolytes. He actually had permission to kill them, out in the open, with absolutely no reprisals, and he wasn’t about to squander the opportunity. The last few weeks had truly awakened a bloodlust that both frightened and excited him.

So he set out into the Valley of the Dark Lords, scanner and datapad in hand. He didn’t have to go very far before encountering a group of acolytes working to excavate the crumbling walls of an old tomb. Zavahier marched over to them and began his scans.

“Hey! What are you doing?” one of the acolytes asked, glaring at him.

“Just scanning for traitors. You have nothing to worry about... if you’re loyal,” Zavahier said. The first acolyte’s face was scanned, his name was searched for in the Academy’s database, and he was confirmed to _not_ be a traitor. “It seems it’s your lucky day.” 

He moved on to the second acolyte, and that one was also deemed to be loyal, and so was the third one. But the fourth acolyte he inspected flashed up a warning on the scanner. Zavahier looked at him, then double checked the information in the datapad, and it confirmed for a second time that the acolyte was indeed known to be plotting against the Empire.

Without hesitation, Zavahier hit him with a blast of purple lightning; it crackled loudly, sending echoes across the whole Valley. The other acolytes scattered in all directions, while the traitor screamed in pain. Zavahier no longer had any sympathy for the recipients of his lightning; he’d left that weakness far behind him, and now cared only for making others suffer as he had suffered. The Academy Overseers had achieved what Rawste never had, but Zavahier did not see that as a bad thing. Being willing to do this without hesitation made him stronger.

He kept up his barrage of lightning, keeping the acolyte in far too much pain to be able to attack him. And then, with another surge of power, he ended the traitor’s life, letting his body crumple to the ground.

The other acolytes were cowering behind the remains of a fallen statue, and they shrank back as Zavahier stalked towards them. Their fear was palpable, strong enough for him to draw power from, and he felt it tingle across his skin. Yet their weakness disgusted him. No matter how hard the last few weeks had been, _he_ had never cowered like this. “What are you all cringing for?”

“Please don’t kill us! We didn’t have anything to do with what the Overseers did to you!” one of them cried, proving that gossip had spread throughout the Academy.

That just served to make it even more essential that Zavahier reaffirm his strength and dominance. “Weren’t you listening? I’m exterminating traitors on the head of security’s orders. The database says you’re not traitors,” Zavahier said, looking down contemptuously at the cowering acolytes. It was tempting to kill them anyway. But Arzanon had said he would be watching, and getting caught murdering loyal acolytes probably wouldn’t look very good. “You’re lucky that I _am_ acting on orders, or I _would_ kill you all. You call yourselves Sith acolytes? You’re pathetic.”

That didn’t seem to help. They shrunk back even more.

“Oh wait, I haven’t scanned _you_ yet,” he added, turning his attention to an acolyte hiding behind a crate. Zavahier quickly scanned him, and smiled when the scanner beeped and flashed red. With another loud crack of lightning, the seditious acolyte was thrown backwards against the hard stone wall. There was a sickening crunch, and the acolyte fell to the floor with his neck twisted and blood leaking from his head.

This did not help the other acolytes believe that Zavahier _wasn_ _’t_ on some kind of murderous rampage. It was almost like they were too terrified to really take in anything he’d said. They trembled before him, each of them begging for mercy, their voices overlapping so that Zavahier couldn’t make out what any individual acolyte said.

“I suppose I can let you live, since none of you are plotting against the Empire... are you?” he asked, making it sound like a threat.

He received a jumble of responses that could be broadly interpreted as a resounding ‘no’, so he moved on to the next group of acolytes, smiling to himself. None of the next group were in the database of traitors, but Zavahier made sure to tell them how lucky they were to be allowed to live. By the end of today, _every_ acolyte in the entire Academy would fear his wrath. He would make sure of it. Just because he was performing a vital service for the Emperor didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of the situation to advance his own standing in the acolytes’ hierarchy. He was tired of being at the bottom, when he knew he was strong enough to earn more.

He really was beginning to feel like a true Sith.

In less than an hour, he found and killed four more traitors. He didn’t know exactly how many were required to die before his own loyalty would be seen as beyond reproach, so he would simply keep searching until he couldn’t find anyone else to kill. Or until he was too physically exhausted to continue. Whichever came first, really. He’d never had much in the way of stamina, and his recent ordeal had left his body weak, so he knew he didn’t have endless stores of energy to draw from. At this rate, he was _never_ going to build up the physical strength he wanted.

The seventh traitor was a more challenging opponent than the others, who had all been weak enough that Zavahier hadn’t had any trouble ending their lives. This one was different. He blocked Zavahier’s lightning with his training blade, and then rushed at him. Zavahier dodged sideways, and raised a lightning barrier around himself. The acolyte’s second swing bounced harmlessly off this bubble of Force power, and sparks carried along the blade, stinging the man’s hand.

But he didn’t relent. He screamed in rage and battered Zavahier’s shield with a viciousness that took him by surprise. With enough blows from the training blade, the protective bubble collapsed, and the edge of the blade tore along his arm. Zavahier dropped his own weapon when his arm went numb. At least he was facing an acolyte using a training sabre, a completely non-lethal weapon. He’d lost the feeling in his arm, and the burn would sting for a while afterwards, but it was better than facing a Sith warblade like Karroh’s.

He raised his left hand and used the full force of his anger and fear to throw the seditious acolyte backwards. The man landed hard on his back, and began to climb to his feet. Zavahier advanced towards him, and pushed him with the Force again, this time throwing him over a low wall and down into the tomb below. The man hit the ground below, and Zavahier peered over the wall, waiting for a minute to see if the acolyte had survived the fall.

It seemed that he hadn’t.

But Zavahier struck him with a bolt of lightning just to make sure. It was hard to be _too_ thorough when it came to killing traitors.

Feeling sure that he’d tracked down and killed all the traitors presently in the Valley, Zavahier retrieved his weapon and headed back towards the Academy, and found Arzanon waiting for him.

“I watched you deal with those traitors,” Arzanon said, pausing briefly as if to leave Zavahier in suspense for a moment or two. “Well done. That was an impressive display of loyalty. Take this reward as a token of the Emperor’s favour… and wear this badge. It marks you as a defender of our Empire.”

Arzanon handed him a credit chip containing a not insubstantial amount of money, and a small padded box holding a pin bearing a six-pointed symbol in red and black, a slightly more elaborate version of the Imperial crest. The credit chip was pocketed with barely any further thought, but the badge warranted a closer inspection. It matched ones already worn by Arzanon and the Intelligence officer, and so was a bit more than a simple trinket. Zavahier gave Arzanon a small smile; after weeks of mistreatment and being held in contempt because of his origins as a slave, the pin meant a lot. “Thank you,” he said.

“Stay vigilant, acolyte,” the Intelligence officer said. “Our enemies lurk where you least expect them…”

“I look forward to killing them all,” Zavahier replied, and he knew it was the truth. He still would not describe himself as loyal. He would never be a meek and obedient servant of the Empire, and a small amount of praise wasn’t going to make him forget how much he despised his fellow Sith. He’d kill them all if he felt he had reason to do so. But he had to admit there was something enjoyable about destroying enemies of the Empire: he was paid for it, and it improved his social standing.

Killing without being punished for it had its benefits, and serving the Empire apparently had the potential to be rewarding.  A good thing to keep in mind for the future. It would never _own_ him, of course. Zavahier was quite adamant about that. But the Empire was more than just the Sith, and killing traitors served to defend the parts of the Empire that he _didn_ _’t_ hate. Like the soldiers he had worked with in the tomb of Ajunta Pall.

Yes, perhaps serving the Empire was worth his time, even if such acts might be mistaken as loyalty. Zavahier was fine with being considered loyal. Just as long as nobody expected blind obedience from him. Now that he had his freedom, he wasn’t willing to let _anybody_ take it away from him.


	18. Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier has a confrontation with Ffon, and ventures out of the Academy for his third trial.

That little pin affixed to the collar of Zavahier’s robes made quite a difference to his life at the Academy. It was a subtle thing, but it was there. Over the next few days, Zavahier sensed that his punishment truly had come to an end. Samus and Rance now treated him largely the same as the other acolytes. Perhaps even a little better, as they turned a completely blind eye to Zavahier exacting his vengeance on Balek, Wydr and Gerr. With his strength and confidence returning, Zavahier had little trouble dominating them in training sessions once again. He shocked them with Force lightning, threw them around, trapped them in whirlwinds, and hit them with his training sabre, savagely taking revenge upon them even once they tried to surrender. As long as he didn’t cross the line and actually _kill_ any of them, he was free to do almost whatever he wanted to them, and their pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

It didn’t even matter that Ffon and Harkun still sneered at him. Zavahier knew he could survive them both. More than that, the little badge Arzanon had given him proved that he’d done something neither of them had: he’d helped to protect the Empire from its enemies. That made him _better_ than both of them. There was more to being Sith than torture and violence, after all.

He was even able to completely humiliate Ffon in one training session. Zavahier made a show of being weak, pretending that his injuries still troubled him… a strategy that really shouldn’t have worked, given he’d used it several times during his time at the Academy. But Ffon was so arrogant, so keen to hurt Zavahier at any opportunity, that he fell for it. Just at the moment when Ffon was about to hit him when he was down, Zavahier rolled out of the way and snatched Ffon into the air, ensnaring him in a whirlwind. One of those whirlwinds that Ffon considered so beneath him.

Zavahier left him dangling there for the rest of the lesson, feigning deafness whenever Samus suggested that he let Ffon go. Of course, Samus _could_ have freed Ffon himself… but it seemed he had chosen not to, quietly allowing Zavahier this little taste of vengeance.

He regretted it later, though. After a brief outing into the Valley of the Dark Lords, Zavahier returned to the barracks to discover that Ffon had broken into his security chest. Most of Zavahier’s meagre possessions had been ignored, but Ffon quickly held up Dran’s jar.

“Acolytes aren’t allowed to have pets, you know,” Ffon said, a malicious smile curling across his face. “But I suppose you find companionship with vermin like this, don’t you?”

“Give him back,” Zavahier said, taking a step towards Ffon, quite prepared to get violent to reclaim his Pelko Bug.

“Ah ah ah,” Ffon responded. He raised the jar in a threatening manner. “Get back, or your little pet dies.”

“You’re going to kill him no matter what I do.” Zavahier was quite certain of that.

“Well, I _was_ going to give him to Harkun to dispose of… but you’re right, this way is more fun.” And Ffon raised the jar again, before throwing it onto the floor so forcefully that it shattered. To drive his point home, Ffon stomped hard on the shards, crushing Dran beneath his foot.

Zavahier launched himself forward, not even bothering to draw his training sabre. He summoned lightning to both hands, and unleashed it all at once in a massive blast at Ffon. The Sith Pureblood was thrown backwards, unprepared for the full force of Zavahier’s rage. Stray bolts of lightning struck the walls and floor, and left burned holes in the sheets and blankets covering the beds. But he didn’t care. He hit Ffon with another bolt even as his most hated rival tried to get to his feet.

He would have continued, but something large and heavy slammed into him, pushing him against the wall. He struggled, assuming that it was Ffon’s retaliation, but then he recognised the force holding him. Karroh gave him a quick shake. “Stop! You can’t murder him here. You’ll get in trouble.”

It took another shake, and a solid push against the wall before the mist of rage faded just enough for Zavahier to stop striking out with bolts of lightning.

Ffon was slowly getting to his feet again, looking a little shaken, and there was a small cut on his forehead, where his head had hit the floor. “Why are you protecting him, Karroh? What’s a worthless slave to you?”

“Maybe I have my own opinions about who has value,” Karroh said, releasing Zavahier and striding over to the broken jar. He crouched down, sifting through the fragments of glass and scattered sand to find the small, broken body of Dran the Pelko Bug. He picked it up, showing it to Ffon. “Doing this was pathetic. The cruel act of a child.”

“Sith are cruel, because we have the power!” Ffon snarled. “If you think otherwise you’re no better than your pet slave.”

“I’m neither a pet nor a slave, Ffon,” Zavahier replied. He began building up another charge of lightning.

But again, Karroh stopped him, walking over to place Dran into his hand, and Zavahier looked down at the tiny body. The Pelko Bug was crushed almost beyond recognition, his carapace cracked, with bodily fluids leaking, and each of his five remaining legs were twisted and broken. Pelko Bugs were feared across Korriban for their ability to swarm and devour unwary acolytes… but now the sight of this one, half squished and thoroughly dead, was simply sad.

Zavahier quickly wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe, hiding the tears that threatened, because the very _last_ thing he wanted was for Karroh and Ffon to see that he was upset. It was just a stupid bug. A little insect. Completely meaningless. He shouldn’t let something _this_ small get to him.

“Awww, look, the little slave is crying over the dead bug.” The bolt of lightning that came from Zavahier’s fingers quickly removed the smile from Ffon’s face, but it didn’t shut him up. “You can’t kill me. Not here in the Academy.”

“I wouldn’t push him, if I were you,” Karroh warned the other Sith Pureblood. “Seems to me if he murders you, I’d be the only witness. And maybe I wouldn’t tell the whole truth, if you get what I’m saying. Maybe I’d say… oh, I don’t know. That you tripped on your own robes and broke your neck.”

“I’d like that,” Zavahier said. “Then Harkun would know just what a useless failure you are.”

“He’d know the truth,” Ffon hissed. “He’d know you murdered me. And that’s why you won’t do it.”

“I _will_ kill you.” That was a promise, and spoken with all the determination that such a promise entailed. “Just not today. Run away, Ffon. Go and run to your master like the mindless _dog_ you are.”

With both Zavahier and Karroh facing him together, Ffon didn’t dare to push the matter any further, and he hurried away with what little dignity he could muster. Zavahier watched him go, and shook his head. “Not exactly how I wanted him to find out that you and I are on civil terms.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘friends’, Ezerdus.”

“Yes, that.”

“He probably already knew, anyway. Harkun knows, which means Ffon does too. It doesn’t matter,” Karroh said. “Come on, let’s go and find you another Pelko Bug, shall we?”

But Zavahier just shook his head. “No. He’ll only kill that one as well. Besides, it was stupid to let myself care about an insect.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a pet,” Karroh pointed out. “Even Sith have them.”

“Do you?”

“Sure! I’ve got a Phalone at home. He’s a fantastic guard animal, and I used to take him hunting, too. I’ll go back for him once I’m an apprentice.”

“And if another Sith killed him, would you want another one?” Zavahier asked. But he didn’t wait for Karroh to respond, because it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. What Karroh did had _no_ impact on what Zavahier would do. More than ever, Ffon reminded him of Rawste. The squashing of a bug Zavahier had taken as a pet was _exactly_ the kind of thing his owner would have – and _had_ – done. Which meant…

_Yes. You know the answer_.

Ffon had to die. And Zavahier had to be the one to do it. The only way to deal with people like that, people who stood in his way and destroyed what _belonged_ to him, was to utterly _destroy_ them. It wouldn’t be enough to simply kill Ffon with a bolt of lightning. He wanted to draw it out, make him suffer. And then crush him…

Like a bug.

~*~*~*~

Several days later, when Harkun announced the time when the group of acolytes should assemble in his office to be given the details of their third trial, Zavahier chose to be late _on purpose_. It had become the theme of all of his dealings with Harkun, at first due to circumstances beyond his control, but now something that he recognised irritated the Overseer. Provoking Harkun was a quick and easy way to give Zavahier more reasons to hate him.

That was something Balek, Wydr and Gerr still failed to understand. They thought he was reckless for constantly trying to goad Harkun, and they focused instead on not drawing attention to themselves. Perhaps it was safer that way, but it also kept them weak. By giving himself more reason to fear that Harkun might _actually_ kill him this time, Zavahier had more fear and anger to draw power from. It gave him strength.

So he let them all scurry off to Harkun’s office as quickly as they could, while he finished with the book he was studying, returned it to its proper place in the archives, and only _then_ did he make his way through the Academy’s corridors. He sauntered into Harkun’s office at a leisurely pace, and felt the wave of hatred from the Overseer hit him as he did so.

It was always a very satisfying feeling when everything went according to plan.

Harkun didn’t acknowledge Zavahier at first, but instead continued to address the other acolytes. “Get going, you know your trials,” he said, before adding darkly, “Once again, I need to bring our latecomer up to speed.”

Balek, Wydr and Gerr filed out of the office, leaving just Zavahier and Ffon behind.

“Still crying over that dead bug, slave?” Ffon asked in an almost conversational tone.

“I’ll make _you_ cry if you don’t shut up.”

“Be quiet!” Harkun snapped. Only at Zavahier, of course. Nothing Ffon said would ever earn even the slightest reprimand, would it? “Both you and Ffon will have trials of intellect – trials that test your ability to apply your understanding of the Force to solve problems,” Harkun said.

“You don’t expect a slave to be a match for me in intellect!” Ffon scoffed. “I’ve been trained under the greatest teachers—“

“Calm down, Ffon,” Harkun interrupted the Sith Pureblood. “I certainly do not expect this slave to be a match for you. That’s why you will have separate trials.”

“You don’t need to dumb down the trials for me, though I’m sure Ffon would appreciate the help,” Zavahier said.

Harkun wasn’t particularly amused at this. “You’re only digging your own grave,” he said with a sneer. “Ffon, you will go to the library on the second floor of the Academy and translate the following texts for Lord Zash,” Harkun continued, as if Zavahier hadn’t interrupted him at all. He rose from his seat to hand a small pile of stone tablets to Ffon over the desk. They were perhaps artefacts that the other acolytes had recovered from the Valley of the Dark Lords during their second trial.

“Yes, Overseer,” Ffon said, taking the artefacts, before turning to leave.

Harkun seated himself again, and then gave Zavahier a nasty, vindictive smile. “Slave, deep in the ancient, _monster-infested_ tomb of Marka Ragnos, there is a holocron filled with dark secrets and encased in a great stone pyramid.”

Zavahier shifted position and folded his arms, not at all impressed with where this was going. Ffon’s trial was certainly one of intellect, but this was sounding more like the prelude to an attempt to get him killed. The slight emphasis on the words ‘monster-infested’ proved the point rather nicely.

“No one has figured out how to release the holocron from its stone prison in over a thousand years. You will bring this holocron to me, or you will die,” Harkun finished. He looked enormously pleased with himself for having assigned what very much seemed to be an impossible task.

How was Zavahier supposed to do something that no Sith had ever done in more than a millennium?

But he wasn’t going to show Harkun that he was worried. So he gave a little smile. “No problem. A simple errand. Need anything else in the tomb while I’m down there?”

Harkun didn’t seem impressed with that comment either, and his eyes narrowed. “You will bring back the holocron, or hope that the spirit of Marka Ragnos himself returns to end your miserable existence. Now go!”

Zavahier was quite used to Harkun’s threats and dismissals by this point, so left the Overseer’s office without any saying anything further. He made his way through the Academy, gathering the supplies he thought he might need; he filled a backpack with several medpacs – because he predicted that those monsters _would_ try to eat him – and several packs of rations in case he was gone for more than a few hours. He then added a torch, his datapad – containing the notes relating to his lessons in Ancient Sith – and the journal he had been practising his reading and writing in. He would probably need to do some translations of his own.

Then he headed outside; it was early enough in the morning that he still had plenty of time in the day, and he sensed this challenge was going to take a while to find a solution to. No matter how he looked at it, the task he’d been assigned seemed to be impossible. Despite how far his powers had come since arriving on Korriban, he still knew himself to be very inexperienced, and the recovery of Marka Ragnos’ holocron sounded like something that even those with a very solid understanding of the Force had failed to accomplish.

So how was he supposed to do it?

He was just going to have to find his way into the tomb, locate the monument, and try everything he could think of. Since the other option was to give up without trying, and then be killed, it wasn’t like Zavahier had a lot of choice in the matter. And if he failed, he wasn’t going to let Harkun kill him without putting up a good fight. One way or another, he was going to find a way to survive, and to prove his strength.

He just had no idea how he was going to do that.

Yet.

The tomb of Marka Ragnos was located further away from the Academy than any of the other tombs Zavahier had explored so far. It was in the Lower Wilds, an area at the base of a deep canyon at the other end of the Valley of the Dark Lords. Perhaps in the past it had been accessible on foot, but now there was a sheer cliff to the east of the Academy, and the fall was several hundred metres to the floor of the chasm below. Zavahier didn’t have enough faith in his physical prowess to risk climbing down.

But as he walked down the steps out of the Academy, a different idea occurred to him. There was a small fleet of speeders on Korriban that Zavahier had, up until this point, completely ignored; he hadn’t ventured far from the Academy since he’d arrived, and had thus not needed to acquire transportation around the Valley of the Dark Lords.

They were all parked around a landing platform just outside of the Academy, and there were a number of droids in the area, all working on various tasks: repairs, refuelling, cleaning. Most were astromechs, but there were a few protocol droids as well, and as Zavahier approached, one of the them stopped what it was doing and spoke to him. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Perhaps. Can anybody use these speeders?” Zavahier asked.

“Oh no, sir. Not _anybody_. But Sith certainly can,” the protocol droid replied.

“I need to go to the tomb of Marka Ragnos,” Zavahier said.

“Very well, sir. You may use this speeder,” the droid said, leading him over to one of the waiting speeders.

Zavahier looked at it, taking in the shape and size of the vehicle, along with the clear markings to identify it as belonging to the Empire. Just in case there was any doubt about that on Korriban. Yet he hesitated to actually take the speeder; amongst the many skills Rawste had thought it unwise to allow Zavahier to learn, speeder piloting had been very high on the list. The last thing a rebellious slave ought to have access to was a vehicle. He would have stolen it and used it to escape. Or deliberately crashed it onto the factory, taking out both himself and his owner in a massive fireball of death. But now, while it was certainly _possible_ that he could figure it out on his own, crashing the speeder into a cliff would be an annoyingly ignoble death, and he didn’t want to give Ffon the satisfaction.

“You will drive me to the Lower Wilds, droid,” he said, deciding that the best way around this problem was to simply order the droid to do it for him.

“Of course, sir,” the droid said, making no objection whatsoever. Whether it was because few acolytes were capable pilots, or because many Sith viewed driving themselves to be beneath them, it seemed the droid was used to providing a taxi service, and therefore not surprised when Zavahier ordered it to do so. The droid climbed into the driver’s seat of the speeder, and after waiting for Zavahier to take the passenger’s seat, it started the engine. The speeder came to life, humming gently as it rose into the air and began its flight across the Valley of the Dark Lords.

It felt a little odd to be driven around by a droid who’d accepted his orders without question. Zavahier resolved to arrange some piloting lessons for himself at some point in the future. Other Sith might enjoy having servants to do everything for them, but Zavahier did not. He wanted the independence that came with knowing how to do things himself. He wanted to be able to do everything people who _hadn_ _’t_ grown up as property took for granted.

But for the moment, the aerial view of Korriban was enthralling and inspiring. Zavahier leaned over to look at the floor of the Valley far below, able to pick out from this height the slight deviations in the sand that suggested a buried tomb lay beneath. Perhaps worth an expedition in future? The tomb of Ajunta Pall had been largely picked clean of relics and artefacts after so many acolytes had explored them, and Zavahier imagined that the other more well-known tombs on Korriban would be similar. One that _hadn_ _’t_ been excavated yet would be much more exciting.

Something like that would need more than his own bare hands. When he was a Sith Lord and had apprentices and acolytes of his own, _that_ would be the time to go searching for undiscovered tombs. As much as he wanted to do a lot of things himself, digging out an entire tomb with a single shovel wasn’t _quite_ what he had in mind. Some things would always require an entire group of people.

A power base. _That_ was what he wanted!

Not slaves, though.

Servants, yes. Apprentices and acolytes and military troops and officers and ships and droids and walkers. Yes to all of those.

But _not_ slaves.

The speeder flew past several vast statues of ancient Sith; two rows of them lined the walls of the Valley, but many of them were damaged. One of them was missing its entire head, but some partially erected scaffolding suggested repairs were at least being considered. That seemed appropriate. From what Zavahier had learned in the archives, Korriban had been out of the Empire’s hands for well over a thousand years, only to be reclaimed at the beginning of the last war.

Wait.

A thousand years.

There had been no _true_ Sith on Korriban for a very, very long time. It had been held by the Republic for the last three hundred years, guarded by Jedi who thought Korriban’s presence in the dark side was somehow a threat to the galaxy. A ridiculous notion. _They_ were the real threat, after all. A threat to knowledge and passion and individuality. They had destroyed so much when they had ‘protected’ the galaxy from Korriban’s power.

And the planet had entirely lost for much of the time prior to that. There had been a few groups of people _playing_ at being Sith a few hundred years ago, followers of fallen Jedi who had taken on the mantle of Dark Lords of the Sith. Whether Revan and Malak counted as real Sith or not was something Zavahier was still trying to decide. They had been given the title of Darth by the Emperor, but they had originally been Jedi, and had never actually been citizens of the Empire.

If Zavahier – a slave from Caekarro, the son of a Republic defector – was not worthy of being Sith, then how could two former Jedi?

He didn’t know the answer to that question. He ought to ask someone who knew more, like Briga or Samus.

Anyway, the _point_ was that Korriban had been abandoned for most of the last thousand years. A dead world full of lost tombs.

So in effect, nobody who was truly _worthy_ of Marka Ragnos’ holocron had been here to search for it. Perhaps nobody had even been _trying_ to, at least not until the Empire reclaimed Korriban forty-four years ago by the Imperial calendar. That meant that Zavahier was in pursuit of something that only a few decades worth of Sith had been searching for. _Not_ a thousand years of attempts and failures. It almost went without saying that the Republic troops and Jedi who had guarded Korriban for the last three hundred years would never have been able to find the holocron, if indeed they had even been looking for it.

Zavahier smiled to himself. This trial may yet still prove to be impossible, especially given that as a former slave, he might not be worthy of the holocron himself. But at least he could be certain that he hadn’t been assigned to do something that literally _every_ Sith in the last millennium had tried and failed to do. Harkun had made the task sound completely beyond Zavahier’s powers, but only by omitting the fact that nobody had been on Korriban to even _try._

Now Zavahier felt more sure of himself.

He would find a way.

There certainly had been at least _some_ Sith who’d sought out this holocron over the last few decades. Perhaps a great many of them. If Lord Zash knew of its existence and wanted him to acquire it, then that suggested she had tried to get it at least once. So Zavahier would still need to think of a solution to the puzzle that nobody else had figured out in decades. Yet perhaps that was where his origins as a slave might prove advantageous. He didn’t think like other Sith. He didn’t see the universe in the same way. Many Sith had spent their whole lives knowing they were special. They believed they deserved everything they had. And while they were willing to fight to get what they wanted, they had never been required to struggle for what they _needed_.

Ffon and Karroh were both good examples of this. Yes, the trials were intended for acolytes to prove their strength, but neither of them really considered for a moment that they wouldn’t be found worthy. And that gave them a sense of entitlement that simply didn’t exist for Zavahier. He’d spent most of his life as property, with no rights and no say in his future. He was still learning what it meant to be free, how to assert himself, how to get the things he needed. And he was still learning the extent of his own power, too, and he had no idea just how much potential he had, how far his powers might one day take him.

But the thought had occurred to him that regardless of how many Sith had attempted to obtain Marka Ragnos’ holocron, the fact that they had failed to do so suggested only three possible options: that it was truly impossible; that it was possible, but ridiculously complicated; or that it was something so simple that it had been overlooked.

Zavahier hoped it was the third option, because that was where his inexperience and lowborn past might give him an edge. It gave him a chance of seeing solutions that might not occur to more typical Sith, who had more experience and were certainly better educated. He had to hope that all the others had been over-thinking the puzzle.

It was either that, or he would die.

So there really wasn’t any other choice, was there?

The speeder began its descent into the lowest part of the Valley of the Dark Lords, skimming down the edge of the sheer cliff, before levelling out and flying over the dusty canyon. The droid piloting the speeder brought it down into a walled encampment at the southern edge of the Valley, landing smoothly on a high metal platform. Zavahier disembarked, walking away, before remembering himself and turning back to the droid.

“I will need transportation back to the Academy when I’m done here. Wait for me. Or… return in…” he paused for a moment, turning towards the encampment, and then the wilderness beyond. Exactly how long would he need to complete his task?

Hours?

Days?

He was unsure.

“There is a communications terminal over there, sir. You may contact me when you are ready to return, and I will pick you up,” the droid said, navigating Zavahier’s uncertainty by filling in with its own standard protocols for situations like this.

“That is acceptable,” Zavahier said, noting the location of the communications terminal. It _did_ seem like the most sensible solution all around, even if it would entail a little waiting on his part while the droid returned with the speeder. He would worry about that later, after he’d dealt with the much more pressing concern: finding the tomb of Marka Ragnos, and locating the monument.

There was an elevator at the end of the landing platform, which took Zavahier down into the encampment itself. High walls of metal panels formed a curve surrounding the encampment on two sides, with the cliff face behind Zavahier forming the rest of the defensive structure; only a narrow gap between two panels provided an opening into the Valley beyond, and this was guarded by several sentries. Other soldiers were working around the encampment as well, but what really drew Zavahier’s eye was the large number of animal transport crates, which were familiar from Rawste’s menagerie.

These crates, however, contained beasts that truly _weren_ _’t_ familiar to him. And that was fascinating enough that he went over to investigate; one of the animals was stretched out on a table, obviously dead, with a greying Sith Lord standing over it, covered in blood and his arms buried up to the elbows in the beast’s guts. He sensed Zavahier’s approach and pulled his hands free, regarding him with a smile.

“A fresh young acolyte, come to view my experiments? Good. I trust the sight of a messy operating table doesn’t disturb you?” the Sith Lord asked.

“Nothing disturbs me,” Zavahier replied. As a slave, seeing an innocent and helpless animal dissected would have upset him. Seeing Dran squashed had upset him. But things were different now. He’d tortured people, he’d killed people, and he’d learned what happened when he felt _pity_ for an animal. And while the bloody mess on the table was certainly unpleasant to look at, it didn’t really seem all that important compared to the other things Zavahier had done. It was strange how one’s priorities could change, wasn’t it? “The path to power is not for the fainthearted.”

“Heh. You remind me of myself at your age,” the Sith said, sounding faintly amused.

“So what are you doing?” Zavahier asked. There had to be a reason why this Sith was dismembering an animal other than the sheer pleasure of it, surely?

Well, perhaps not.

If he’d learned anything on Korriban, it was that the Sith were capable of _anything_.

“I am Lord Renning, and I’m doing important research. Understanding the Force’s mysteries requires that we seek answers everywhere – even inside a beast itself. This used to be a Tuk’ata – the hound-like creatures infesting Korriban’s tombs. On the surface, nothing special,” he said, gesturing to the creature he’d been operating on.

So _that_ was a Tuk’ata. Zavahier had heard of them, of course, not least because Rawste had always been quite vocal about not being able to acquire one for his collection. Now he could see why: it was – or had been when it was alive – a large and powerful beast, with savage–looking fangs and claws, and a crest of horns around the back of its head.

“But I alone can see this creature is an expression of pure dark side energy – aggression made manifest,” Renning finished.

Zavahier considered this. There was no denying the Tuk’ata was an impressive creature, and there definitely _was_ something about it beyond what he could see with his eyes, a little trace of power beneath the surface. “Interesting. How did you learn that?” he asked.

“The Force told me so. It speaks to me. I have gazed into the depths of the abyss and found revelations there others only dream of,” Renning replied, apparently thinking this an adequate answer. Maybe it was: the Force could do a lot of things, most of which were currently beyond Zavahier’s understanding. Maybe Renning really could hear the Force talking to him.

Or maybe he was just insane.

“Uh huh,” Zavahier said. He was interested enough to hear more, at least, even if he wasn’t sure whether Renning was actually onto something interesting, or just pursuing his own insanity. It could have been either. Or both.

“The Force is alive. It expresses its will in the physical world. This Tuk’ata was one such form,” Renning continued.

“Are we another of these ‘forms’?” Zavahier asked, beginning to feel like he knew where Renning was going with this. And he could almost see the sense in it: he already knew that it was possible to influence the world around him by using the power of the Force. When he produced lightning, or hurled Balek across the room, those were physical expressions of the power inside himself and the power around him. And it wasn’t only humans who could have a connection to the Force: pure-blooded Sith could too, and a number of other species. Although they were few in number, there were alien acolytes in the Academy, reviled almost as much as Zavahier was. So it didn’t seem so ridiculous that maybe an animal could have a connection to the Force as well.

Renning’s eyes lit up, and he smiled, apparently pleased that Zavahier seemed to be grasping the concept he was trying to explain. “Sith are the highest manifestation of the Force’s will!” he said. “I’ve dissected hundreds of Tuk’ata, forging a direct connection to the dark side. Each beast I examine advances me towards perfect unity. I now stand at a new frontier, but find myself thwarted. My most perfect specimen – a Tuk’ata mutant – escaped into the tombs before I could analyse it.”

There was definitely more than a subtle hint there.

Well, Zavahier was heading in that direction anyway, wasn’t he? “Perhaps I could recover your specimen?” he offered.

Renning smiled again, quite delighted to have somebody willingly getting involved in his experiments. “Yes, I was hoping as much. My apprentice Malora saw which tomb the mutant beast fled into. Find out what she knows, assist me, and you will be rewarded.”

That really begged the question of why Malora couldn’t go after the mutant Tuk’ata herself, now that Zavahier thought about it. Maybe it was simply that an acolyte was more expendable than an apprentice. It wouldn’t have affected his decision, though. While Zavahier knew that he needed to focus on the holocron, he also saw the value in challenging himself in as many ways as possible, and fighting a mutant Tuk’ata would certainly be a good way of testing himself.

“I’ll speak to Malora,” Zavahier said.

“You’ve found a great calling in my service, acolyte. I trust you appreciate that,” Renning replied, turning away to return to exploring the dead Tuk’ata’s innards.

Renning’s apprentice, Malora, was easy to find; she was a dark-haired young woman, not much older than Zavahier, and she’d been quietly observing as Zavahier spoke to her master. She met his gaze, and motioned for him to join her a short distance away, out of Renning’s earshot. “Seeking Lord Renning’s lost pet, are you?” she asked him with a small chuckle. “Don’t waste your time. That fool’s research is pointless.”

“I don’t really care,” Zavahier replied. He hadn’t really made up his mind about Renning’s research yet. Maybe there was something to it, or maybe the man was just insane. Malora would probably know. “Going after the mutant Tuk’ata is a challenge, nothing more.”

“Glad to know I’m not the only one who sees through my master’s inane babbling,” Malora said with a bit of relief. “Renning deludes the Dark Council into believing he’s advancing Sith knowledge. The truth is he wastes the Empire’s time and resources dissecting mindless animals. But if his experiments were discredited, he would be banished – and I would be rewarded.”

“Don’t manipulate me,” Zavahier said darkly. He was starting to get a feel for dealing with his fellow Sith. She wanted him to do her dirty work, that was all. “You’re just scheming to get rid of your master.”

“I have a greater destiny than serving as a research assistant in this pathetic excuse for a laboratory!” she said, gesturing around her at the cages and the remains of dissected Tuk’ata. “Look, just a minor alteration to the mutant Tuk’ata’s brain would allow me to reveal my master as a fraud. Bring me the brain before delivering it to Lord Renning, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ll consider it,” Zavahier replied simply. Since Malora didn’t have any actual _proof_ of Renning’s experiments being pointless, and was in fact looking only to advance her own position, it would clearly be necessary for him to figure out for himself if the research was worthwhile. Renning had made a solid argument for the Force manifesting itself in the beasts. And if the research _was_ worthless, then why should it be necessary to alter the Tuk’ata’s brain? Surely if there was nothing special about it, then it wouldn’t need to be altered in order to prove it?

So Zavahier was inclined to think Renning knew what he was doing – even though he might _also_ be insane. The two did not have to be mutually exclusive.

“You’ll earn rewards from both the master and his apprentice. It’s a better deal,” Malora said, clearly sensing that she needed to offer a little more incentive to make Zavahier agree with her.

Yes, because that _really_ proved that she was right, didn’t it?

“I said I will consider it,” Zavahier repeated. “Just give me the information I need.”

Malora sighed. “The mutant Tuk’ata escaped into the tomb of Marka Ragnos. It’s much larger than the others, so it’s easy to spot. Return to me with the brain before you see Lord Renning, and I’ll take care of the rest,” she told him, before handing him the box of tools he would need to extract the Tuk’ata’s brain.

Zavahier walked away from Malora, mostly just interested in preparing himself for his journey to the tomb of Marka Ragnos _without_ her pestering him any further, which he strongly suspected she would do if he stayed close enough for her to do so. He packed away the tools into his bag, and shifted everything around a little so that the medpacs and food rations would be near the top. Once he was ready, he left the encampment and set out into the Lower Wilds. The sentries saluted as he went past them, through the opening in the wall, and into the wilderness beyond.


	19. The Tomb Of Marka Ragnos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier's trial takes him into perilous territory, where not all of the danger comes from outside. Overcoming his own fear is half the battle.

The Valley stretched out before Zavahier, an empty expanse of red sand, with the cliffs rising sharply on either side. It all _looked_ quite peaceful, but Zavahier remained alert as he began his long trek to the tomb. He already knew that there were Tuk’ata here, and likely a great number of them, judging by how many Renning had dissected. An acolyte travelling alone might seem like an easy target for Korriban’s top predators.

In the area immediately surrounding the encampment, there was something that resembled a path, where the sand had been pressed flat beneath many booted feet, but here and there he could make out paw prints as well. A nearby rock was splashed with blood, though whether it was human or Tuk’ata, Zavahier didn’t know. As the Valley narrowed, so that the rocks rose sharply on either side of him, the path disappeared entirely.

Zavahier continued onwards, but his pace slowed as he crept through the narrow ravine. He could sense danger. He could feel it moving closer. And then—

He ducked, and the lithe form of a Tuk’ata soared over him, its sharp claws narrowly missing his neck. It landed in front of him, and tried to twist around to face him again. But the Valley was narrow here, and it didn’t quite have enough room.

Zavahier struck it with a bolt of lightning that would have killed a fellow acolyte. But the Tuk’ata shook it off, the sparks lingering at the tips of its horns. It managed to turn itself around by partly climbing the cliff and then leaping down. Snarling, it swiped at Zavahier with its claws, but he leapt back just in time; the claws tore through his robes, leaving a small scratch on his belly.

Drawing his training sabre, Zavahier backed away from the Tuk’ata. He would have liked more room to manoeuvre. But the beast probably would have as well, and it was quite a bit larger than him. It growled at him, and then lunged forward again. With a little help from the Force, Zavahier jumped over it, and once again the Tuk’ata was forced to turn around in a narrow space. Zavahier struck its hindquarters with his training blade, and one of its back legs went limp, making the beast lurch to one side.

That impeded its efforts to turn around, and it roared in anger. And there were _words_ in that roar. They were difficult to make out, spoken in a language Zavahier didn’t know. But he got the beast’s meaning regardless: “Die, Sith!”

It kicked out with its uninjured back leg, its talons slicing into Zavahier’s leg. He cried out in pain, and staggered backwards, trying to get out of the beast’s range. But with nothing to support its rear end, the Tuk’ata fell over. It couldn’t pursue him.

Zavahier summoned more lightning to his fingers, and held it there, letting it build up, crackling over his hand and up his forearm. It hurt. But he endured it. He was used to pain. Building up the surge of lightning still further, until he could stand the pain no longer, he released it in a single powerful blast. The _crack_ of thunder echoed across the whole Valley. The Tuk’ata couldn’t resist that barrage of lightning as easily as it had the first, and dropped to the ground. It twitched several times, with Zavahier’s lightning still rippling over its body. But then it was still. Dead.

Zavahier stood over the beast for several long moments, catching his breath, but also studying the Tuk’ata. He’d had no idea they could talk.

He didn’t know the language it had used – he had sensed the meaning of the words through the Force – but it had _definitely_ spoken.

It had also partially resisted his first blast of Force lightning.

Those two facts proved to Zavahier that Malora was wrong. A mindless beast wouldn’t speak. And investigating a creature that was resistant to the Force couldn’t be a waste of time. Whether Renning’s discoveries would ever be _useful_ was another matter… and also absolutely not Zavahier’s concern. There clearly _was_ something about the Tuk’ata that was worth studying.

He had also learned that Tuk’ata were tough, powerful animals that definitely _did_ have the capacity to kill him. Zavahier sat down on the sand next to the Tuk’ata’s corpse, and opened one of the medpacs he’d brought with him. Now he felt quite glad that he’d properly prepared himself for the possibility of getting hurt. He would have to thank Harkun for warning him that the tomb was infested with monsters.

This was his first time using a medpac, but fortunately there were instructions he could easily follow. He applied an antiseptic to the wounds from the Tuk’ata’s claws, wincing at the way it stung, and then added a small amount of kolto to aid the healing process. Finally, spray bandages were applied, and then he repeated the process for the burns on his forearm. There were painkillers in the medpac too, so Zavahier injected himself with them as well. He would still need to visit the medical bay when he got back to the Academy, but that could wait. He had far too much to do to let a few injuries stop him, and this basic level of first aid was enough to keep him on his feet for now.

What would have been preferable was to not get injured at all, but Zavahier was beginning to accept the fact that just because he was no longer a slave, it did not necessarily mean that he did not have to worry about physical suffering. Being Sith meant conflict; and that meant getting hurt sometimes. This was especially true when Overseer Harkun assigned him trials that were intended to be beyond his abilities.

Sometimes, he would simply have to be content with being alive.

Zavahier rested for a little while longer, and moved on again once the painkillers from the medpac had started to take effect. But he moved more cautiously now, even once the ravine began to widen into an open sandy area lined with more broken statues. The cliffs had been smoothed and carved with ancient Sith writing, and in places had even had additional walls added. In the past, this would have been something like a maze, but now most of the walls were crumbling into ruin, or had collapsed completely. What should have been a complicated and winding path to the tomb was now quite straightforward.

A cold wind blew along the Valley, ruffling Zavahier’s hair and sending a chill down his spine. The tomb of Marka Ragnos was ahead of him, and he could feel its dark energy from here. Perhaps it was because he was more sensitive to such things now, but it seemed stronger than the power he’d felt in the lesser tombs he’d explored. It pressed against his mind, seeping through the little cracks in his confidence. He was a slave. Weak. Vulnerable. Not worthy of this magnificent place. Not worthy of the power it contained. He would die here.

Zavahier shook his head, and pushed back, forcing those tendrils of doubt out of his mind. Those thoughts weren’t his own. He was Sith! He wouldn’t let the dark presence here frighten him. He was better than that. He focused on his anger, his rage, his fury, and cloaked himself in it. As long as he was angry, he couldn’t be afraid, and the dark energy here couldn’t use his insecurities against him.

Yet he had to wonder if the spirit of Marka Ragnos really was here. At first he’d dismissed it as just another of Harkun’s attempts to intimidate him, but there really _was_ something about this part of the Valley. The power of the dark side was stronger here. He could feel it. And he was sure it could feel him too.

Well, he wasn’t afraid of it!

He wished he truly believed that. But the fear was still there. He couldn’t push it away that easily, though he could conceal it.

Zavahier came upon a high wall jutting out from the cliff, and moved along its edge, then turned a corner. In the shelter behind the wall, protected from the winds of the Valley, was a tent. The grey canvas was torn and ragged, and a few empty crates rested nearby, partly buried in the sand. This had been a camp of some kind, but not anymore. Zavahier’s eyes scanned the remains of the encampment, but he could see nothing of value worth scavenging, nor could he see any particular reason why it had been abandoned.

Save perhaps for the dark energy emanating from the nearby tomb. Zavahier looked towards it, and then back at the camp. He was able to resist that power, but perhaps whoever had made this camp hadn’t had the same strength.

Exactly what could power like that do to a person’s mind?

As if in answer to that question, there was a scream of rage from nearby, and a soldier in heavy armour charged down the slope towards Zavahier, a vibrosword held high above his head. Remembering what had happened the last time he’d fought someone with a vibroblade, Zavahier sent a bolt of lightning right at the weapon itself. Just like the last time, the lightning wound across the blade, and the energy cell exploded with a satisfying _bang_ , reducing the soldier’s arm to a charred stump. The man dropped to the ground, screaming in agony.

Without having time to consider _why_ a soldier had seemingly gone berserk and attacked him for no reason at all, Zavahier found himself under attack from several more of them. Drawn to him by the sound of their companion’s death, they opened fire with blasters.

Zavahier dived behind the partially collapsed wall, letting the blaster bolts impact harmlessly on a chunk of rock.

His first thought was that maybe Harkun had sent them to ambush him. But that didn’t seem to fit. Harkun had seemed quite convinced that the Tuk’ata would be sufficient. Or else the spirit of Marka Ragnos himself. Sending a bunch of soldiers after him would just be excessive.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it, though.

But no. These men didn’t seem entirely lucid. None of them spoke. Nobody was giving orders. There had just been that rage-filled scream. And there was definitely…

Something wrong.

Zavahier didn’t quite know how to describe it, but he could _feel_ it. The same energy that pressed against his mind swirled around these soldiers, dark tendrils creeping through their thoughts like a vine burrowing through cracks in a wall. It was safe to assume they were insane. That seemed to fit better.

From behind the boulder, Zavahier launched his counterattack. He could stand only for a few moments, long enough to lift one of the soldiers and throw him forcefully off to one side, before he had to duck again to avoid being shot. He heard the man land with a thump and a grunt.

Ducking in and out of cover wasn’t a very efficient way of dealing with them. And eventually they would simply run at him, like the first one had. Being surrounded on all sides would make this fight a lot harder than it needed to be. So Zavahier focused on the section of wall closest to the soldiers. He raised his hand, and closed his fingers into a fist. It helped to focus his powers that way.  He felt the texture of the rock beneath his fingers, a tactile echo through the Force. Now he pulled on the wall. It shivered slightly, a few smaller pieces crumbling and falling. But the wall remained mostly intact.

“Come on,” Zavahier grumbled irritably, pulling at the wall again, more forcefully this time. It was by far the largest object he’d ever tried to move, and it was a _lot_ harder than throwing pebbles around. Or people, for that matter. But he could do this. He had the power. It was right there inside him. He had to feel his passions. Anger at the soldiers for attacking him so unnecessarily. Anger at Harkun for sending him on this impossible trial. Fear of the dark presence that had been pressing on his mind, and had made the soldiers lose theirs.

That did it. The wall leaned, and then toppled over, crushing the entire group of soldiers beneath massive chunks of rock. Most were killed instantly, but one was only partly buried; a large slab of stone pinned his legs, but he still seemed to care more about attacking Zavahier than about his own situation, firing his blaster wildly in Zavahier’s direction. Zavahier used the Force to disarm him, pulling the man’s rifle out of his hands and hurling it as far away as he could. Then he killed the last soldier with a quick blast of lightning.

He looked around at the now dead soldiers, trying to make sense of what had happened. After all his previous encounters with the Imperial military, all perfectly civil and even friendly at times, seeing them like _this_ was a little troubling. Obviously the tomb had driven them insane, and Zavahier had done exactly what he’d needed to do in order to preserve his own life. But still… killing men who, under different circumstances, would have been nothing but polite and respectful towards him bothered him a little. Before they’d been driven insane, the soldiers would have been very much like Sergeant Cormun and his men.

And yet…

Well, if he was attacked again, obviously he would defend himself. But killing crazed soldiers wasn’t as satisfying as using his powers against people he actually _hated_.

Zavahier left the dead soldiers and continued on towards Marka Ragnos’ tomb, now keeping a wary eye open for Tuk’ata _and_ more insane soldiers. At least now he knew why Renning’s camp was positioned so far away from the tomb. The closer he got, the more oppressive the dark energy became, and the more he needed to concentrate on keeping it from affecting him too much. But he felt frightened and skittish, at one point startling when he saw movement in the corner of his eye. But it had vanished when he turned towards it, lightning at his fingertips and ready to defend himself. He was left with no idea whether it was real, or just his own imagination.

Nothing else attacked him, at least, and he finally reached the entrance to the tomb itself. Steps descended into the depths, and Zavahier took out the torch he’d packed in his bag. He turned it on, casting a narrow beam of light ahead of him. The darkness pressed in around him, suggesting at dangers he couldn’t see, and those tendrils of doubt began to sneak into his mind again, reminding him of where he had come from, and of how weak he really was. Zavahier shivered, pushing the thoughts away as best he could.

Yet now he was here, the nature of this trial worried him. If he couldn’t find this holocron, then there would be no point in returning to the Academy. And now it was hard to feel confident in his ability to find it: other Sith had tried and failed, and there was still so much he didn’t know about the Force. His instincts had gotten him this far, but this was a trial of intellect. There would be more to it than the power of his emotions alone. A Sith could survive on passion alone, but not if he wanted to gain any real power. Education, intelligence and cunning were needed too. The most powerful Sith possessed all three.

And Zavahier knew he lacked the first of those. He wasn’t all that sure about the second two, either.

He paused in his steps, and shook his head again. This tomb was getting to him, seeding doubt in his mind, trying to drive him insane like the soldiers outside. He couldn’t let it. The only reason he was doubting his ability to complete this task was because this place was intensifying his fear.

He took a steadying breath, and then delved deeper into the tomb. There were others here, unseen, but definitely present. Frightened acolytes who hid in the shadows, trying to stay out of his way. They were far more afraid of him than he was of them.

He should hunt them down.

It was a distraction from the trial, but at this point, a much needed one. Destroying them would make him feel strong.

So Zavahier slowed again, this time stretching out his senses, finding those little pinpricks of terror in the darkness. The power within the acolytes was easily distinguishable from the power of the tomb itself; they were weak and flickering flames with the shadows closing in on them. They were too afraid to stay, but too afraid to leave as well. Zavahier guessed that they were acolytes who had failed their trials. Or perhaps they had simply hidden here because they knew they _would_ fail. It was as Karroh had said: most of those who came to Korriban weren’t worthy of being Sith.

Zavahier turned off his torch, and stalked through the darkness. The light source was a beacon highlighting his position, and he didn’t want his prey to know where he was. He was the hunter, and he didn’t need the light. The darkness was his, as natural as his own skin. Rather than trying to push fear away from him, Zavahier accepted it, welcoming it. He let it empower him. His fate may yet be the same as that of the other acolytes here. But only if he let his fear overwhelm him. Trying to deny it and push it away left him more vulnerable than simply _accepting_ that he was afraid… and then doing what needed to be done in spite of it.

One of the acolytes was ahead of him, hiding in a little alcove behind a statue of Marka Ragnos. He was cowering and shaking. He knew he was being hunted. But in the darkness, he couldn’t see Zavahier coming. Not until Zavahier’s lightning lit the whole corridor in flickering purple light. The acolyte screamed, and then died. Pitifully weak. The Empire was better off without such weakness.

Zavahier stalked onwards through the tomb, continuing the hunt. Perhaps if the spirit of Marka Ragnos really _was_ watching him, maybe he would enjoy the sacrifice of so many acolytes in his tomb. If not… well, Zavahier would have continued regardless. Killing other acolytes in the tombs was subtly encouraged in the Academy; technically it was against the rules, but the Overseers and instructors also felt that it was a good way of weeding out the weak and the unworthy. And what they didn’t see happen, they wouldn’t punish.

There was also the small possibility that one of these acolytes might have found the holocron he needed. It was unlikely, but it was worth killing them and searching for it, just in case. He might get lucky.

He found three more acolytes in one of the side chambers. They’d made a kind of camp there, with beds made of old blankets and a barricade made of piled stones and bricks. Several torches made of bone and hair provided illumination… not to mention a very unpleasant smell. But beneath it was the scent of desperation, which Zavahier perceived through the Force. When he entered the chamber, they scurried behind their amusing little barricade.

“Please don’t hurt us!” one of them called out to him.

The other two didn’t even try to beg, but instead immediately attacked him, throwing lightning at him from behind the pile of rocks. One bolt of lightning was deflected with his training sabre. The other he simply let hit him. It crackled over him, a stinging shock that in the grand scheme of everything he’d endured, just wasn’t enough to trouble him. It tingled. It hurt a little. But it didn’t even slow him down. Rawste had given him worse shocks than that just for fun. These acolytes really _were_ pathetic.

The only thing protecting them was their poorly constructed barricade of rocks and debris, and Zavahier demolished it with a violent thrust of the Force, pushing the stones right at the acolytes cowering behind them. They staggered backwards, caught in the blast as well, and Zavahier didn’t wait for them to recover. He unleashed a barrage of lightning from both hands, enveloping all three acolytes at once.

 _That_ was real lightning. Not the miserable little sparks they’d thrown at him. Zavahier was actually holding back his full strength, just so the acolytes would live a few seconds longer. He wanted them to suffer. He wanted them to experience the _real_ power of a Sith, to feel the pain of Force lightning as it was meant to be. He made them scream in agony, enjoying the waves of terror and desperation that rolled off them. His lightning dissipated for a few moments, and the acolytes lay trembling on the floor. Then Zavahier delivered a final shock to each one, ending their pathetic lives.

Once all three acolytes were dead – and the lightning that lingered on their bodies had faded away – Zavahier approached them and searched their pockets. He found a small stone tablet bearing an inscription, but nothing else of particular interest. Whether the tablet was of any use was hard to tell, since his knowledge of Ancient Sith was fairly limited; he could pick out a few words, but not enough to get much meaning from it. He did have the datapad containing knowledge of the Sith language, of course, which he could use to attempt a translation, but for the moment, he had other priorities. He stowed the tablet in his backpack; at the very least, it would be a nice gift for Lord Zash.

On top of the holocron, of course.

Since Zavahier’s future relied on pleasing Zash and proving to her that he was a better prospect than Ffon, he couldn’t go wrong with bringing her extra gifts from the tombs. It showed he was capable of more than just following the orders given to him by Harkun. He could think for himself, and seek out treasures beyond those he was commanded to retrieve.

And if Zash decided she didn’t want the extras, maybe he could keep them for himself. There was something about having never had any of his own possessions that made him want them all the more, and there was something incredibly appealing about ancient Sith relics, a kind of connection to a world and a philosophy that was still very new to him. That he still felt a little separate from, really, like he didn’t truly belong in the Sith Order yet. But by searching for and obtaining those little pieces of the Order’s history, he became a part of it.

A search of the chamber revealed no other artefacts of note. Almost everything of value had either been taken by others, or broken down into chunks of rock to be used in the barricade. Not that it had done the acolytes any good. So Zavahier concentrated, now stretching out his senses into the rest of the tomb to feel if there were any other acolytes nearby. But there were none. If there _had_ been others in the tomb, they had probably fled. Yet the hunt had served its purpose. The fear of this tomb’s dark energy was still there, but it was now more fully under Zavahier’s control. He was still afraid, but nevertheless strong and capable. He was more than able to face the trial ahead of him.


	20. The Third Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier may be overthinking things a little...

It took some time for Zavahier to find the monument that supposedly contained the ancient holocron. The tomb of Marka Ragnos was quite large, and had many side corridors and additional chambers. For a while, he wondered whether he had missed the monument, since Harkun hadn’t provided him with a description. It could have been any of the various statues and obelisks he passed during his exploration of the tomb.

But when he eventually found it, he knew it. It wasn’t some random statue like those he’d seen elsewhere in the tomb, and elsewhere on Korriban, for that matter. It was a great pyramid, some ten metres tall, standing in the middle of the largest chamber he had yet seen. Scaffolding surrounded it, with a ramp leading up to the very top; the presence of this platform confirmed that many Sith had been here, trying to obtain the holocron encased within the pyramid.

Zavahier didn’t immediately climb up the scaffolding. Instead he paced around the base of the pyramid, shining his torch on it and studying its features. It was made of blue-grey stone that was quite unlike the statues and obelisks elsewhere in the tomb, and each of the four sides was engraved with a large, four-pointed star, surrounded by smaller swirls. The very top of the pyramid was different to the rest, with glowing red panels set into the stone. This was clearly where the holocron was hidden: the red panels reminded Zavahier of the crystal matrices that formed the holocrons he’d used in the Academy archives.

Here and there were obvious signs of damage, particularly on the upper third of the monument, where frustrated Sith had tried to blast it apart with the power of the Force. There was even one long line that looked suspiciously like it had been done with a lightsabre, obviously to no avail.

There were no obvious clues anywhere else in the chamber; there were smaller monuments in each corner of the room, but there were no writings, or any other indication of how to open the pyramid.

Now Zavahier climbed up the ramp leading to the platform surrounding the top of the pyramid, so he could get a better look at the upper part of the monument. The scaffolding had several large white lights fitted to both the ramp and the platform at the top, allowing him to put his own much smaller torch into his pocket. Now he had both hands free to do... whatever he needed to do. He focused on the pyramid’s red glowing cap. He could almost see the holocron inside, caged beneath the crystal lattice of the pyramid’s tip. The red light pulsated slowly, growing brighter and then dimmer. This close, he could make out writing beneath the crystalline panels: ‘power is fear’. It was written in Basic, not Sith, so he guessed it was a more recent addition to the monument.

Or perhaps not? Basic had been the dominant language of the galaxy – even in the Empire! – for a long time, after all.

But no, that didn’t feel right. The tomb of a powerful Sith Lord would have writings in Ancient Sith. Nothing else would be good enough.

So some other Sith had added those words to the pyramid. They matched the ones he’d seen on the obelisk in the Academy’s main hall, and it was a concept he was becoming quite familiar with. But he wasn’t really sure how that helped him right now. It did, however, fit nicely with the palpable aura of fear that drenched the entire tomb, something of a recurring theme.

The holocron was right there, but how was he to get at it?

Brute force was obviously not an option. From the damage to the pyramid, it was clear that countless Sith had tried that, and it hadn’t worked. If that was the solution, the holocron would have been retrieved long ago.

So he needed to try something else.

The question was what?

Zavahier stood staring at the monument for a few minutes, trying to think of something that nobody else would have tried before. But nothing came to mind. He had ideas, of course, but they all just seemed far too obvious. Simple, basic things that any Sith would try. Ideas that would have been tried dozens of times already, and were therefore unlikely to work if he tried them again.

Maybe he should try them anyway? Since the only other option was doing _nothing,_ it had to be worth the attempt.

Obvious idea number one: meditate on the dark side of the Force.

Zavahier closed his eyes and focused on the roiling, smouldering power within himself. He had practised that a lot during his time on Korriban, and it came easily to him now. His anger and fear always bubbled near the surface, where he could draw upon them whenever he needed to. There was always something to be angry about. Always something to be afraid of. And beneath it all was the awe inspiring power of the Force itself.

This very chamber was alive with the dark side. Zavahier could feel it, and he reached out to it with his senses, letting his own dark power mingle with the Force permeating the tomb. The power of the dark side surrounded him, prickling over his skin, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the energy swirling around him like deep purple smoke. He concentrated harder, intensifying the dark energy radiating from his body, before channelling it towards the glowing red lattice concealing the holocron,

The pyramid began to vibrate, and a deep rumbling sound came from within it. For a moment, Zavahier thought his meditation had worked, and that the pyramid would now open for him.

But he was wrong.

The whole chamber began to shake, and dust and small fragments of rock tumbled from the ceiling high above. Zavahier raised his arm to protect his head, and darted away from the monument, fearing the whole chamber was about to collapse on top of him. He narrowly avoided a much larger chunk of rock that fell away from the wall. But before he’d even reached the bottom of the ramp, the shaking stopped.

Zavahier halted, and turned back towards the pyramid, hoping that perhaps it had opened to reveal the holocron. But it hadn’t. Yet the fact that it had seemed to respond to his presence suggested he might be on the right track. He would have been more worried if _nothing_ had happened. But something about his meditation had provoked a response from the monument.

Before he had a chance to try again, there was a high pitched shriek, and a large, winged creature dropped from the ceiling, slashing at him with viciously sharp talons. It’s claws latched onto his right arm, digging painfully into his flesh, and it’s broad membranous wings battered his face and chest. With his free hand, Zavahier directed a spark of lightning right into the monster’s face, aiming for eyes... that weren’t there. The creature’s large head completely lacked eyes. Instead, Zavahier’s lightning struck a kind of bulbous protuberance where it’s eye should have been.

It screeched in pain, and bit him on the shoulder, tearing through his robes and into the muscle underneath. Zavahier shocked it again, putting more power into the blast , intending on pushing the lightning right through its skull and into its brain. Every living thing needed it’s brain in order to function, after all.

It worked, and the winged creature released its hold on his arm and shoulder, landing on the scaffolding with an audible _clang_. Zavahier kicked it away from him, and then turned back to the monument. Surely now it had opened, revealing the holocron to him?

No.

It stood there, completely unchanged, while blood streamed from Zavahier’s wounds.

He sank down onto the metal platform, sitting with his back pressed to the railings, facing the monument. He almost thought it was mocking him with its stony silence, as utterly impenetrable as it had been when he arrived. He had thought he was doing something right because of the way it had shaken and rumbled after being exposed to his connection to the dark side of the Force, but apparently it hadn’t been quite enough.

Had this happened to the other Sith who had tried to acquire Marka Ragnos’ holocron? Had they been attacked by flying creatures? Perhaps even killed by them? Or had the pyramid been wholly unresponsive? Zavahier thought it might be the latter. If the pyramid _did_ respond to others, then this room would be full of hopeful Sith. He had to assume that the monument’s reaction to him was unusual. He _needed_ to believe he was special. The dark presence in the tomb had been trying to make him think otherwise. All of his doubts about his place as a Sith seemed magnified in this place, and he was beginning to think that might be deliberate. Part of the challenge was to overcome those doubts; power alone was not enough. He needed to prove himself worthy of the holocron’s secrets.

Zavahier pulled his gaze away from the monument, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. He needed to think about the problem some more.

No, he needed his arm and shoulder to stop hurting. Zavahier took another medpac from his backpack and opened it, before clumsily treating the injuries inflicted by the winged beast. These things were not really designed to be used one handed, but he managed to apply antiseptics and kolto, before spraying on the bandages. That reduced the pain, and he almost gave himself another shot of painkillers as well, but decided against it at the last moment. Relief from the pain would be nice, but the drugs had sedative properties too, and he needed his mind to be clear. Taking a second dose of the painkillers would leave him unable to think his way through this puzzle.

Instead, he opened a ration pack and nibbled on the nutrient bar while staring at the monument. He was close. He could feel it. The holocron _would_ be his. He just needed to figure out what more the pyramid wanted from him. Drawing on the power of the dark side hadn’t been quite enough.

After he’d finished eating, he returned to the pyramid. He stood before it, again staring at the glowing red crystal matrix, probing it with the Force. He couldn’t detect anything new, though. If the monument had changed after his first attempt to retrieve the holocron, he couldn’t sense it.

So now it was time to try something else. Obvious idea number two: recite the Sith Code.

The written text beneath the glowing red panels were what had given Zavahier that idea. The fact that fear was power was a cornerstone of his training as a Sith, so perhaps it was the Sith Code that the pyramid needed.

"Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through  power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken," Zavahier said in Ancient Sith. His pronunciation wasn’t perfect, but he hoped it was close enough, especially when he also focused on the raw power of the emotions described by the Sith Code. He concentrated on the strength it gave him, and on the sense of freedom that only a former slave could truly understand. "The Force shall free me."

Nothing happened. The monument didn’t even tremble in response to this recitation of the Sith Code.

But at least no more monsters attacked him, so although he was no further forward in completing this task, he was also not being mauled again. But it also showed that reciting the Sith Code was a step backwards. It was a generic thing that applied to many Sith, when compared to the rather specific way in which Zavahier perceived and drew on the dark side.

Obvious idea number three: offer the pyramid something more personal.

Zavahier’s own blood had strengthened his Force connection to the amulet, so perhaps something similar would work on the pyramid as well. And once it was more in tune with his powers, it would be easier for him to simply command it to open.

So he found a sharp stone fragment and used it to slice open the palm of his hand. “Perhaps this will satiate you,” he said to the pyramid as he pressed his bleeding hand against the glowing red panel.

Then he waited, staring intently at the pyramid, hoping that this sacrifice of his own blood – his own strength – was the answer to this quite infuriating puzzle. His blood dribbled slowly down the face of the monument, and dripped from the wound in his palm as well.

But again there was no response from the pyramid.

Zavahier stepped away from it again, and leaned against the railings around the edge of the platform, squeezing his hand into a tight fist to stem the flow of blood. He wanted to save his remaining medpacs for more serious injuries than the cut on the palm of his hand.

This trial was proving to be as much of a challenge as Harkun had made it out to be. Zavahier was beginning to run out of obvious ideas, and the less obvious ones would take more time.

Alright, he would think this through logically. Meditating on the dark side had caused a monster to attack him. Reciting the Sith Code and giving the monument a taste of his own blood had failed to get any reaction at all.

Perhaps his battle with the creature had been intended to prove his strength? It certainly would not be the first time he had needed to pass a trial of blood in order to prove himself. Life itself was conflict; animals had to fight to eat, to mate, to control the best territory. And intelligent beings, while superior in almost every regard, were in many ways not too much different to animals. A true Sith, the best and strongest of all the forms of life in the galaxy, thrived on that constant struggle for survival and success.

Obvious idea number four: provide the monument with a greater sacrifice than the death of the winged beast.

He had already killed a monster in the monument’s presence, and it had been seemingly summoned by the vibration. But the winged creature may not have been quite enough. It had died easily, and it was only a mindless animal. Perhaps the pyramid needed something better. More powerful. More impressive. Another sacrifice was called for. There would undoubtedly be more of the winged monsters in the tomb, as well as Tuk’ata and perhaps even K’lor’slugs. But Zavahier already knew what the _best_ sacrifice would be. He just hoped he would be able to find one.

Zavahier left the pyramid’s chamber and began stalking through the tomb once again, retracing his steps back towards the entrance, pausing along the way to look into the side chambers. He was almost out of the tomb before he came across his prey: another acolyte coming into the tomb. This wasn’t one of the weak ones that used the tomb as a place to hide; she looked strong and well-fed, an acolyte attempting to complete a trial of her own.

Rather than attacking and incapacitating her, which would have necessitated carrying her through the whole tomb, Zavahier instead chose to approach her. Far better if he could convince her to come with him willingly. “Hello. I have a proposition for you,” he said.

She was understandably suspicious, and eyed him warily. “What kind of proposition?”

“The kind where we both benefit,” Zavahier replied, before making his offer: something that was close enough to the truth that she should not be able to detect any dishonesty in his words, should she be sufficiently strong in the Force to do so. “There is a chamber containing an ancient holocron full of dark secrets, but it requires two Sith to open. We work together, obtain the holocron, and then share the rewards.”

It was _sort of_ the truth. Close enough to hide the real deception, at least. The pyramid wouldn’t open through Zavahier’s efforts alone, so another Sith was needed. His reward would be survival. Her reward would be of a different sort.

The other acolyte considered this for a few moments, giving him a scrutinising look; she clearly wasn’t sure whether she could trust him. Maybe she was also considering the possibility of working with him long enough to obtain the holocron, and then killing him to take it for herself. That was what any worthy Sith acolyte would be thinking in that situation. It was certainly what Zavahier would have thought in the same situation… yet he also felt sure he would have been able to see through this manipulation, if another acolyte had tried this tactic on _him_.

But it seemed this acolyte wasn’t going to treat him with the same level of mistrust. Zavahier was convincing enough, and she gave him a nod of agreement. “Alright, let’s get that holocron together.”

“It’s this way,” Zavahier said, before leading the way back through the tomb and into the chamber where the monument stood. He climbed the ramp to the metal platform at the monument’s tip, and the other acolyte followed him.

“What do we do now?” she asked him, looking curiously at the pyramid. At the very last moment, she spotted the blood he’d placed there earlier, and she tensed, only now realising that he intended to betray her.

“Now you die,” Zavahier said darkly, drawing his training sabre and unleashing a savage barrage of lightning on his fellow acolyte.

She threw herself to one side, avoiding his first attack, and then she sent her own lightning back at him. Zavahier deflected it with his training sabre, and made a second attempt to shock her. This second bolt of lightning hit her in the chest, and it was enough to stun her, immobilising her for several seconds. That allowed Zavahier to channel all his rage and fear into a much greater surge of lightning, enough to end her life. Like virtually all the other acolytes on Korriban, she simply wasn’t a match for him. Her body sank down, crumpling in front of the monument.

Surely that had to be enough to prove himself?

But nothing happened.

Alright, maybe the other acolyte’s blood was needed. Zavahier took the sharp stone he had used to cut his own palm – noting to himself that he _really_ needed to just get a small knife to add to his adventure supplies – and used it to slice open the dead acolyte’s wrist. Blood oozed from the wound, slowly without the beating of a heart, and Zavahier lifted the woman’s body with the Force, floating her above the pyramid so that her blood would fall onto the red lattice.

And _still_ nothing happened.

Zavahier frowned, giving the pyramid a very dark look as he threw the dead acolyte’s body aside. What more could it possibly want from him? He had just brutally killed another acolyte to complete this trial, which would have been fine if it had worked. A death that served a purpose was acceptable. He’d learned not to let those bother him. They were necessary. Justifying a pointless death was somewhat harder, especially when there hadn’t been any evidence to show that the acolyte had been especially weak or unworthy. Well, apart from the ease with which he had tricked her. Still, the sight of her crumpled form and the complete lack of a reaction from the monument bothered Zavahier a little. And there was only one response to that.

Get angry.

“Just open, damn it!” Zavahier snarled at the pyramid, raising both hands to send a stream of lightning at the glowing crystal lattice. It was an act of frustration, an attack against a thoroughly irritating and confounding trial. Harkun had set him up to fail with a task that was completely impossible to complete. Lacking any other options, he lashed out at the monument, adding to the countless hundreds of other violent attempts to break it open.

There was a rumble, and the entire monument shuddered. The glowing red cap slid open, revealing the holocron.

Zavahier just stared for several long moments, not quite believing that had just happened.

“Seriously? That’s all you wanted?” he asked the pyramid, before claiming his prize. It was green and purple in colour, and cube-shaped, quite unlike the majority of the holocrons held in the Academy’s archives. Hopefully that did indeed mean it was special, full of impressive dark secrets.


	21. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier and Karroh discover they make a great team.

With the holocron safely in his pocket and a bit of a swagger in his step, Zavahier left the monument’s chamber. The dark energy of the tomb could no longer make him doubt himself; Zavahier had done the impossible, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on Harkun’s face when he presented the Overseer with Marka Ragnos’ holocron. While he was sure the reaction would be one of stunned anger, he could also be reasonably certain that even if Harkun wasn’t impressed, Zash would be. What other acolyte had done something that no Sith had achieved in a thousand years?

Yes, Zavahier felt quite sure of himself, confident in his ability to do absolutely _anything_ he set his mind to.

As he made his way through the corridors of the tomb, he felt something. A powerful ripple in the Force. It washed over him, and then faded away, like the light fading from an enemy’s eyes at the moment of death. He wondered for a moment why he had that particular thought. And then he knew: something powerful had died, and its death echoed through the Force.

And it had happened nearby. Zavahier could sense that much too.

Well, he could hardly go back to the Academy without first finding out exactly what had created such a powerful ripple in the Force when it died. And who or what had killed such a thing. So Zavahier turned around and went deeper into the tomb. The idea that seeking out something so obviously dangerous was a bit reckless didn’t really occur to him. He was curious, and confident in his own strength. He didn’t need to be scared of anything.

After a little while, he turned a corner and came face to face with Karroh. The Sith Pureblood was rather battered and bruised, with a little blood dribbling from a wound on his temple. But there was a broad smile across his face, and his eyes were bright with excitement. Pleasure and pride rolled off him in waves.

“Was that you?” Zavahier asked.

Karroh nodded, knowing exactly what Zavahier was referring to. “Yeah, it was. I killed the Beast of Marka Ragnos,” he explained with a smile. Despite his injuries, he clearly felt pretty proud of himself. He looked over his shoulder, and pointed towards the carcass of something _massive._

“What is it?” Zavahier asked, admiring the creature. Even dead, it was an impressive specimen. Rawste would have paid a fortune to own it. And would have promptly been eaten by it. It didn’t look like the kind of beast that could be easily controlled or dominated.

“It’s called a Terentatek. It’s a dark side creature, resistant to the Force. Killing it was my trial.”

“No wonder you look so pleased with yourself,” Zavahier commented dryly.

“The same could be said about you,” Karroh replied, grinning at him.

“I retrieved the holocron of Marka Ragnos,” he said, unable to resist a bit of a smile himself as he showed Karroh the holocron. He knew he didn’t need to worry about the other acolyte taking it from him; he and Karroh weren’t in competition, and would not undermine or sabotage each other’s trials. And as strange as it sounded, Zavahier rather liked having someone to share his victories with. Someone who wasn’t a rival or his superior. An _equal_.

“Sounds like we’ve both had a very successful day. How about we head back to the Academy, and get a drink to celebrate?” Karroh suggested, seemingly feeling the same way.

“Not yet. I have one more thing to do. There is a mutant Tuk’ata whose brain I need,” Zavahier said.

“Oh, Lord Renning roped you into _that_ did he?” Karroh said dismissively. “He asked me too, but… well, I’ve got other priorities. Seems like a waste of time to me.”

“I’m not so sure. Did you know Tuk’ata can talk?” Zavahier asked, and when Karroh gave him a sceptical look, he said, “I’m telling the truth. I was attacked by one on the way here, and I’m sure I heard it speak. It also resisted my lightning. To me, that says there is at least something to Renning’s research.”

Karroh was silent for a moment or two while he considered this. “Perhaps I dismissed his ideas too quickly. Either that, or you’re just as crazy as he is,” he said, and then, before Zavahier could say anything else, he added, “Do you need a hand with the mutant Tuk’ata?”

Zavahier considered declining the offer. But then decided against doing so. He’d been injured several times today, and since the Tuk’ata was almost certainly stronger than the one he’d defeated earlier, as well as being resistant to his Force abilities, it would probably be difficult to kill. “Alright. I doubt it will be as exciting as killing the Beast of Marka Ragnos, but I won’t say ‘no’ to some help,” he agreed.

They set off together, making their way through the tomb, searching each chamber for the mutant Tuk’ata; while Zavahier knew it was here somewhere, he didn’t know _exactly_ where it was. The only information he had was that it was much larger than a typical Tuk’ata. And while he and Karroh found and destroyed several Tuk’ata during their search, none of them looked any larger than average… and they certainly weren’t more powerful either. The combination of Zavahier’s lightning and Karroh’s warblade was more than enough to cut each beast down.

After searching the entire tomb, Zavahier had to concede that the mutant Tuk’ata couldn’t be hidden within the main part of the tomb, so they broadened their search to the area outside. To the east was a smaller, secondary tomb, and the air inside was heavy with the rank smell of animals.

Karroh wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I think we’ve found it. This place stinks,” he said, peering into the tomb’s entrance.

Zavahier just shrugged it off. He’d spent his whole life in a huddled group of unwashed slaves. He’d smelled worse than this himself at times. He almost told Karroh this, but decided against it, keeping his mouth shut. Although there was no point in concealing his origins as a slave, this was one specific detail that he wasn’t willing to share even with Karroh. Not even his closest ally needed to know what his life had been like before he’d come to Korriban. The more he distanced himself from his old life, the better Sith he would become. “Come on, let’s get it done,” he said, leading the way into the tomb.

There were no other acolytes hiding in this annex to the tomb of Marka Ragnos, and the reason was obvious as soon as Zavahier and Karroh went beyond the light streaming in through the entrance. It was crawling with K’lor’slugs, which attacked them on sight.

Karroh leaped into battle without hesitation – literally, in fact, using the Force to propel himself a full twenty metres forward, closing the distance between himself and the largest K’lor’slug in a fraction of a second. With a roar of challenge, he swung his warblade, slicing the K’lor’slug in half. This was the first time Zavahier had seen Karroh fighting to the very best of his abilities, and it was impressive. The Sith Pureblood didn’t seem to fear anything, even as he became surrounded by a whole horde of slicing and biting K’lor’slugs.

Zavahier joined in, sending blasts of Force lightning at the K’lor’slugs he had a clear shot at, and trapping several others in a swirling whirlwind of Force energy. The last thing he wanted to do was hit Karroh, so he restricted himself to the beasts at the fringes of the battle, while Karroh danced around in the centre.

A large K’lor’slug barrelled through the group, and raised itself high, preparing to stab Karroh in the back with its vicious claws.

“Duck!” Zavahier yelled, and Karroh trusted him, throwing himself down towards the floor. Zavahier’s lightning arced over his head, striking the K’lor’slug.

Karroh rolled to one side, and stabbed up at it as it began to fall. Then he jumped back to his feet, and swung his weapon again, cleaving several smaller K’lor’slugs in a single sweep. Zavahier felled the last one with a final spark of lightning, and they stood in silence for a few moments, catching their breath and surveying the carnage they had wrought together.

“That was fun,” Karroh said. “It’s definitely easier with two of us working together, isn’t it?”

Zavahier nodded his agreement. They worked well together, and their abilities complemented each other; striking at the K’lor’slugs from a distance suited Zavahier well, and it was a lot easier to do so when Karroh was right in the thick of things, distracting the beasts from his presence.

They continued onwards, and soon discovered the chamber the mutant Tuk’ata had claimed as its den. The wall at the back had collapsed, creating an opening into the cave system beyond, and although Zavahier couldn’t see the Tuk’ata, he could sense its presence. It was far too powerful to not have a palpable aura in the Force. But it was hidden in the caves beyond the tomb.

“I think we need to lure it out somehow,” he said.

“I’ve already thought of that. Wait here,” Karroh responded, and he sprinted back the way they had come.

Zavahier waited, keeping a wary eye on the dark cavern before him. He had almost expected the mutant Tuk’ata to attack him the moment he was alone, but it didn’t emerge from its den. He wasn’t sure if it was even paying any attention to them at all; he didn’t sense any shift in its presence when Karroh left the chamber.

Karroh returned a minute later with the body of one of the smaller K’lor’slugs they had killed slung across his shoulders. He went to the entrance to the Tuk’ata’s den and laid the bait down on the floor, before backing up to join Zavahier. “I thought the promise of an easy meal would be the quickest way of luring it out. When it appears, we attack together,” he said.

“Agreed,” Zavahier said, nodding to Karroh.

It didn’t take long for the mutant Tuk’ata to smell the dead K’lor’slug, and it crept out of its den, sniffing curiously at the unexpected meal. It was the largest Tuk’ata Zavahier had ever seen; the ones he’d killed today barely came up to his waist, but this one towered over him and Karroh. Its eyes were larger than his head, and its claws were longer than his forearm. The beast radiated dark power.

“Now!” Karroh cried, and he threw himself at the huge Tuk’ata, drawing his warblade in mid leap and bringing it down hard against the beast’s shoulder.

It roared in pain and turned towards its attacker, lifting its paw to swipe at him, only to be struck with a bolt of lightning from Zavahier’s hand. It turned towards him, and Karroh seized the opportunity to slash at its shoulder again. Now it lumbered towards Zavahier, snarling aggressively. And there were definitely words in that growl. Harsh, savage words whose meaning Zavahier could only partly comprehend.

It was fighting to protect something.

Exactly what was beyond Zavahier’s understanding. Possibly the tomb itself. That was the traditional role of Tuk’ata on Korriban, after all. But right now it didn’t matter much, because Zavahier’s own life was a higher priority. He dodged away from the Tuk’ata when it came towards him, circling around to the side and slashing with his training sabre. It wouldn’t do as much damage as Karroh’s warblade, but a numb limb would still be a hindrance in a fight.

The Tuk’ata lurched to the side, and Karroh took advantage of its stumble, cutting at its side, while Zavahier used the Force to push it, trying to push it even further off balance. The Tuk’ata fell onto its side, snapping and kicking ferociously. Its jaws closed on Zavahier’s leg and it shook him, before throwing him to one side. He hit the wall and slid down to the floor, the world spinning around him.

He heard Karroh cry out in pain, and he forced himself to look up. He saw that the Tuk’ata’s back leg had landed a solid blow to the other acolyte’s stomach. Karroh’s armour had taken the worst of the kick, but he was still winded and reeling from the force of the impact.

Zavahier pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly and feeling dizzy, but he needed to give Karroh a chance to catch his breath. He began building up his lightning, holding it in his hand for a couple of seconds, and then unleashing it as a powerful blast of purple lightning that struck the Tuk’ata in the eye.

It screamed in pain, and now began trying to escape both Sith, attempting to get back to its den. But Zavahier’s lightning had given Karroh a chance to move, he the blocked the Tuk’ata’s path. It tried to bite him, but as its head came forward, Karroh ducked beneath it and slashed with his warblade, slicing open its throat. Blood spurted from the deadly wound, and the Tuk’ata flailed desperately in its death throes, covering both Zavahier and Karroh in its blood, before finally becoming still.

There was a moment of silence, which was broken by Zavahier. “I’m glad you were here. I definitely wouldn’t have been able to kill that alone,” he said, and he leaned back against the wall. He thought he must have hit his head, because he still felt like the tomb was spinning around him, so he sat down, and then delved into his backpack, looking for his remaining medpacs.

“Yeah, I don’t think I could have taken it down alone either,” Karroh agreed.

“Here, you look like you need this,” Zavahier said, tossing one of the medpacs to Karroh. “I’m sensing another visit to the medical bay in the near future. I’m practically _living_ there these days.”

Karroh caught the medpac, and then joined Zavahier sitting on the floor. “Either that or I need to start bringing a proper medic with me on these excursions,” Karroh agreed as he started treating his wounds. “And _you_ really need to get yourself some armour.”

“Don’t I need lots of credits for that?” Zavahier asked. He was still rather new to the whole notion of actually having possessions.

“For the really good stuff, yeah, but something basic won’t cost you much. Just something to give you a bit more protection than plain cloth. The Empire provides for its citizens. And you’re Sith. If you need it, nobody’s going to tell you ‘no’,” Karroh said, looking Zavahier up and down. “It’s taking you a while to get used to that, isn’t it?”

This was something Zavahier would never have admitted to _anybody_ else, but with Karroh he felt he could be honest. “Yes. It does take some getting used to. I’m used to _being_ property, not having it. I’m still learning where the limits are.”

Karroh chuckled. “You’re Sith, Ezerdus. There _are_ no limits,” he said.

After cleaning and bandaging his wounds, Zavahier set about collecting the dead Tuk’ata’s brain. This proved to be a difficult and messy task, and soon Karroh lent his assistance, using his warblade to cut through the beast’s flesh and detach its head. Together, Zavahier and Karroh used the Force to crack open its skull. The smell was appalling, even by Zavahier’s standards, and they were left with a wobbly grey organ the size of a melon.

“I really hope this was worth it,” Karroh said, looking a bit ill from the grisly task.

“Me too,” Zavahier said, now wishing he had something to wrap the Tuk’ata’s brain in. But he just hadn’t thought to prepare for that. He emptied his bag of the few remaining ration packs, which he passed to Karroh, and stowed the brain inside – and resolved to get himself a new backpack when he returned to the Academy. “I’ll admit I don’t know where Renning’s research will go. Maybe nothing useful will come of it. But when I realised Tuk’ata could talk, it meant studying them probably wasn’t a _complete_ waste of time.”

“I can’t fault your logic there,” Karroh conceded, though he still seemed a little doubtful. “I’m just glad I don’t have to carry that thing around. It’s absolutely foul.”

“Then the sooner we get rid of it, the better,” Zavahier agreed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and turning to leave. He almost reached the entrance to the corridor beyond, but then stopped short as something prickled at the edges of his senses. He tilted his head slightly, focusing on it, and then he turned back towards the dead Tuk’ata.

“What is it?” Karroh asked.

“There’s something else here,” Zavahier replied, and as he watched, a small form crept out of the Tuk’ata’s den, scrambling towards the body. It tripped on over-sized paws and went sprawling forward, whimpering softly. Then it pulled itself up again, and hurried towards…

Its parent.

The little creature was undeniably a Tuk’ata pup, a miniature version of the massive one Zavahier and Karroh had just killed, with dark blue and black striped fur, a long tail, and a white mane running from its forehead to part way down its back. It whined and pressed against the Tuk’ata’s corpse.

“Huh, interesting,” Karroh commented. “Just leave it. Or kill it if you’re feeling merciful.”

But Zavahier had a better idea, and he strode towards the Tuk’ata pup, picking it up by the scruff of the neck and holding it at arm’s length. It wriggled and squirmed in his grasp, snarling savagely at its captor as it swiped its claws ineffectively at him. But Zavahier looked it in the eyes and willed it to be still, and it calmed. Then he reached out with his spare hand, letting it sniff him. The fact that he was still covered in Tuk’ata blood helped; he would smell like kin.

“You have got to be kidding,” Karroh said, staring at him in disbelief as he realised what Zavahier was doing. “You _cannot_ be thinking about keeping that thing.”

“Actually, I was thinking about giving it to Lord Renning to study. But I like your idea _much_ better,” Zavahier said. He thought he might be able to train this beast. That would give him an edge in any fight… once it had grown up a little. And just having the Tuk’ata would probably really annoy Harkun, which was always a good reason to do anything, although for now he would have to keep the pup hidden. “Ffon will have a much harder time killing _this_.”

“I wish I’d never said anything…” Karroh said.

“You’re the one who told me there are no limits,” Zavahier pointed out, pulling the Tuk’ata pup towards him, holding it comfortably against his chest. It settled peacefully in the crook of his arm.

“This wasn’t really what I meant…” Karroh said, but then he sighed, accepting that he wasn’t going to be able to convince Zavahier _not_ to take the Tuk’ata pup back to the Academy. “You’re insane, you know that right?”

Zavahier grinned at him. “Yes, I am quite aware. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

“I think that’s what scares me the most,” Karroh replied, shaking his head. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you have any more crazy ideas.”

“Oh, there’s always more crazy ideas,” Zavahier said. After all, it was the crazy ideas that were the most fun, and would serve to unsettle other Sith the most. The fact that it worked on Karroh was a good sign, in Zavahier’s opinion. He wanted to keep the entire Empire wondering if he really knew what he was doing.

They made their way out of the tomb, and then began the long walk through the wilderness. As they walked, they exchanged the stories of their trials in the tomb of Marka Ragnos. Zavahier listened intently as Karroh described a blow by blow account of his battle with the Terentatek, genuinely appreciating the martial skill required to kill such a beast. In turn, Karroh was suitably impressed by Zavahier’s various attempts to get the pyramid to open, and he offered the opinion that it was the combination of his efforts that had probably resulted in success, not just the lightning alone. The sacrifice of another acolyte was considered especially ingenious – and ruthless.

The journey back to the encampment seemed longer than the same journey made in the opposite direction that morning. Zavahier and Karroh were both tired after their challenging trials and the battle with the mutant Tuk’ata, and medpacs they had used weren’t enough to fully heal their wounds. Fortunately, they ran into no further trouble; perhaps they appeared too dangerous to attack while travelling together, their combined power in the Force warning beasts and insane soldiers alike to stay away.

Or maybe it was the stench of Tuk’ata blood and brain that clung to them.

Evening was beginning to draw in when they reached the encampment. The sentries barred them from entering at first, assuming from their tired and bloodstained appearance that they were outcast acolytes. Karroh lifted one off the ground and choked him with the power of the Force, while Zavahier gave the other a shock of lightning, and both sentries backed down. They weren’t just _any_ Sith acolytes. They had each done the impossible, succeeding where countless others had failed. Even Zavahier felt comfortable with demanding the respect he knew he was due.

Malora was waiting for them, pouncing on them almost as soon as they were through the barricade. “Have you recovered the mutant Tuk’ata brain yet? I’m eager to conclude the business we discussed.”

As if she couldn’t tell the truth just from _smelling_ them!

Zavahier and Karroh exchanged a look, a moment of silent communication; Zavahier had been the one to agree to perform this task, so it was up to him to deal with Renning’s apprentice as he saw fit. “Sorry, I’m still hunting the mutant Tuk’ata,” he told Malora. That statement was half sarcasm, given how obvious the truth must surely be, but that in itself was rather amusing.

Especially with the look Malora gave him. “The beast is twice the size of a normal Tuk’ata. You’re obviously not looking hard enough.”

“We looked pretty hard, didn’t we?” Zavahier said, turning to Karroh.

“Yeah, we really did. We searched high and low, and just couldn’t find _anything_ ,” Karroh agreed, obviously finding this as entertaining as Zavahier did.

“Wait, there was that one place though… Great big chamber east of the tomb, full of K’lor’slugs…” Zavahier continued.

“We could smell it a kilometre away…”

“But you said the beast was inside the tomb of Marka Ragnos, and this was a much smaller tomb, so we decided the mutant Tuk’ata probably wasn’t there.”

“Do you think we should have checked anyway?” Karroh asked, looking at Zavahier with mock horror.

“You know, I didn’t think of that. Maybe we should have. But it’s _much_ too late now,” Zavahier said.

This was quite enough for Malora; she made a frustrated grunt and strode away, stomping her feet as she went. She knew they were mocking her, and that they certainly _had_ retrieved the brain, but were simply refusing to cooperate with her. But when Zavahier realised she was heading right for Lord Renning, he sprinted after her, with Karroh following on his heels.

Renning looked somewhat irritated, and gave Zavahier a stern look. “I’m running out of patience. Have you finally acquired the mutant Tuk’ata brain, or should I send someone else?”

“I got what you wanted. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory,” Zavahier said, trying to shift the Tuk’ata pup bundled in his arms so that he could also access his backpack with his free hand, but struggling to do so. Before he could struggle for long, Karroh stepped in to help, opening the bag and removing the brain – wrinkling his nose in disgust as he did so – before handing it over to Renning.

The Sith Lord took the brain without hesitation, clearly not finding it as repulsive as Karroh did, and he turned it over in his hands, admiring it fondly. “Look at the mottling along the frontal lobe. I can’t wait to analyse this,” he said. And then he focused on the Tuk’ata pup in Zavahier’s arms. “Is that the mutant Tuk’ata’s offspring? Did you bring that for me too?”

“No, this is mine,” Zavahier said possessively. He knew if the man really wanted the pup that badly, there would be little he could do about it.

But Renning had a knowing look in his eye, and accepted Zavahier’s claim. “Fair enough, acolyte. But you will keep me updated as it matures, yes?”

“Of course,” Zavahier said.

“Wonderful. I’m sure a trained mutant Tuk’ata will be much more powerful than a wild one, so it will be fascinating to compare notes,” Renning said. “For now, the brain will suffice. I can learn a great deal from it. You’ve done me a great service, but now I must continue my research. If there’s nothing else…”

There was a moment of silence, and again Zavahier exchanged a look with Karroh, who gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Yes, there is one more thing, actually,” Zavahier said, making the decision. “Malora is a traitor. She asked me to sabotage your experiment.”

Zavahier felt no guilt whatsoever for betraying the apprentice; despite everything that had happened that day, his memory of her attempt to manipulate him was as sharp as ever. It had never been about the actual value of Renning’s research, and everything to do with Malora’s desire to get rid of her master without doing the dirty work herself. She had taken the gamble of trying to get him to do it for her, and now she had to pay the price.

“Is that so?” Renning asked, raising his eyebrows and regarding Zavahier curiously, before turning to his apprentice. “Malora, if you can’t show my work the appreciation it deserves, there’s no place for you as my apprentice.”

Malora looked horrified. “Wait, master, it’s a lie! I haven’t betrayed you,” she said desperately, but Renning seemed unconvinced.

“I know the truth when I hear it, Malora. I’m releasing you from my service… eventually,” Renning said, raising his hand and using Force lightning on her.

Malora cried out in pain, writhing as the lightning crackled over her body. “Ah! Master, please! Stop! No! Ah!”

“My dear, the pain for you is only beginning,” Renning said with a chuckle, before turning back to Zavahier, handing him a credit chip. “Take your reward and leave. Malora and I have much to discuss.”

Zavahier took the chip, recognising what Renning had done; by giving a single reward, he was inviting discord between Zavahier and Karroh, who were supposed to begin quarrelling over who got the credits. Cooperation between acolytes was allowed, but not widely accepted, since a true Sith should be able to stand alone.

Of course, most Sith would also just assume they deserved the reward more than their partner, fuelling the argument.

But Zavahier was not a typical acolyte. As he and Karroh walked away from Renning, he said in a low voice, “You did half the work, so I’ll transfer half the credits to you when we get back to the Academy.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Karroh agreed.

There were much more worthwhile things to worry about than a handful of credits, after all.


	22. Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Academy rules are meant to be broken.

Zavahier and Karroh took the elevator up to the speeder landing platform, and Zavahier almost went to the communications terminal to call the droid he had spoken to that morning, but Karroh stopped him, instead leading him over to a speeder parked at the end of the platform. It was the one Karroh had flown himself down to the Lower Wilds, since unlike Zavahier, he knew how to pilot a speeder himself and didn’t need to rely on droids to drive him anywhere.

Settling into the passenger seat, with the Tuk’ata pup in his lap, Zavahier was quite grateful to be able to sit and rest for a while. Karroh sat in the pilot’s seat, and started the engine; the speeder launched into the air, rising at a steep angle and flying at a much greater speed than the droid had driven earlier. Karroh took them higher and higher, until the Valley of the Dark Lords below was a blur of red rock and black shadows; with the sun low in the sky, the great statues of ancient Sith lining the Valley cast long shadows, and the pyramid of the Academy loomed over it all.

There was nothing as awe inspiring as the view of Korriban from above. It was enthralling, and Zavahier gazed down at it, enjoying the extra height and speed. It wasn’t just about what he could see with his eyes, either; from this height, he could sense the dark side energy of the planet itself, though concentrated in a long streak down the canyon full of ancient tombs. And each tomb itself was a spot of still darker energy, pulsating intensely, passionately. There was such raw emotion in those tombs. Zavahier could feel it, like the half-forgotten rage of long dead Sith.

Did each of those tombs contain the essence of the Sith enshrined there? Did the spirits of the dead observe the activities of the living? How aware were they of what went on around them? Had Marka Ragnos himself been judging Zavahier’s recovery of the holocron?

These thoughts were interrupted by the Tuk’ata pup beginning to wriggle and squirm in his lap. It had been startled when the speeder turned a sharp corner around one of the Sith statues, only narrowly avoiding a collision. Now it was trying to escape, and when Zavahier tried to hold it in place, it bit his hand.

“Ow! Stop that!” Zavahier said, pulling his hand away and pressing against the Tuk’ata’s mind with the Force instead. “Be still. You’re not in danger.”

“Told you it was a bad idea to keep that thing,” Karroh said, glancing sideways at Zavahier.

“It doesn’t like your piloting,” Zavahier said. “And I’m inclined to agree.” There was no denying that Karroh enjoyed high speeds and sharp turns while flying, and confidence in his skills radiated from him as he drove. But the Tuk’ata pup was beginning to settle again, at least partly reassured by Zavahier’s words – and the use of the Force to calm it. Yet it still stared at the world with its red eyes wide in silent horror. Who would have thought a Tuk’ata could be afraid of anything?

The speeder levelled out for the final approach to the Academy, and then began to reduce speed. Karroh brought the vehicle in for a steady, careful landing. “There, see? I can drive safely as well,” he said once they were safely on the ground once again.

Zavahier climbed out of the speeder, noting that the Tuk’ata pup seemed glad to be back on solid ground as well. He patted it on the head, and ran his fingers through its mane.

“Have you thought of a name for it yet?” Karroh asked.

“Yes,” Zavahier replied, his gaze still focused on his new pet. The name he’d decided on was his favourite word in Ancient Sith. “Shâsot.”

Zavahier and Karroh made for an impressive – and disgusting – sight as they entered the Academy; blood-stained and weary, but radiating the kind of confidence and self-assurance that could only come from victory. They had passed trials that had been intended to be far more challenging than anything any other acolytes had faced, and it was important to emphasise _this_ over their tiredness and injuries. Acolytes who got hurt during their trials might be perceived as weak. But ones who had done things no other Sith could have done would not. Karroh had proved himself exceptional with the destruction of the Beast of Marka Ragnos, and Zavahier had retrieved a holocron that was thought completely impossible to obtain. So they walked into the Academy like they owned it.

This was the first time Zavahier had done something he could truly be proud of, and nobody could say he was just a worthless slave now. There was proof that he was more than that. The holocron in his pocket proved without a doubt that he _was_ worthy of being Sith.

The only thing that detracted from their triumphant return was the fact that they were tired and wounded.

“We should get to the medical bay,” Karroh said when they reached the main hall, gesturing towards the corridor that would take them there.

“I wish I could, but I’d better report to Harkun first,” Zavahier replied. “I’m probably already the last one to return. Again. And if I keep him waiting long enough, he’ll declare my trial a failure.”

“That really wouldn’t be very fair,” Karroh said, frowning slightly.

“Since when has that ever stopped him? He gave Ffon a nice easy trial and sent me off to get killed,” Zavahier pointed out. “But I can’t wait to see his face when I present that holocron to him. He won’t believe it. Just a shame it won’t be enough to prove I’m more than Ffon’s equal.”

“You never know—“ Karroh began.

“Yes, I do know. Harkun’s an idiot. All that really matters is that Lord Zash knows how good I am,” Zavahier interrupted, before shaking his head. The problem with Karroh was that he was very much Overseer Tremel’s favourite, similar to the way Harkun favoured Ffon, so he didn’t have to work hard for approval. “You head to the medical bay, and I’ll probably see you there later, once I’m done with Harkun.”

“Alright,” Karroh agreed, and he went off in one direction, while Zavahier went in the other.

It was now the middle of the evening, and when Zavahier reached Harkun’s office, he was not surprised to learn he was once again the last acolyte to return. Harkun looked impatient and annoyed, which was also not particularly surprising.

“You had better not be wasting my time, slave,” he snarled as soon as Zavahier approached, taking in Zavahier’s battered and blood-soaked appearance, and his nose wrinkling at the smell still lingering on him. “You better have the holocron.”

“Of course I have it,” Zavahier replied, giving both the holocron and the tablet he’d recovered to Harkun. He actually rather enjoyed the reaction his entrance had provoked; Harkun looked thoroughly annoyed just to see him alive, and being covered in blood and smelling of dead Tuk’ata seemed to have intimidated Balek, Wydr and Gerr. Ffon just looked vaguely disgusted by him… which really wasn’t  much of a change from usual, actually. But despite how tired he was, and how much he wanted medical care – not to mention a bath – it had been worth delaying those things just for this. Just to see how the others reacted. He might be tired and injured, but he was still the most powerful presence in the room.

“You didn’t think a supposedly impossible task would trouble me, did you? It was a shame the spirit of Marka Ragnos didn’t appear, though. I’d have quite liked to meet him,” Zavahier added, putting effort into sounding every bit as confident as he felt. There was no need to be modest here. Not when he’d proven once again that he was the most worthy acolyte in the group. He didn’t even begrudge Ffon the easy task that Harkun had given him; maybe he had finished it sooner, and hadn’t gotten hurt in the process, but all that showed was that when there was a _real_ challenge, it was Zavahier that could actually get things done. He was quite sure that Zash would be far more impressed with his activities than she would with Ffon’s translation, no matter how accurately or quickly it had been done.

Harkun didn’t look particularly impressed, but Zavahier hadn’t expected him to. He looked at the holocron, scrutinising it as if hoping to find something wrong with it. “Hmmm. A fake, or stolen from the library, probably,” Harkun said, before pocketing the holocron. “You’ve already proved to have little respect for Academy property.”

The tablet was ignored completely, just placed on Harkun’s desk without another thought. A little disappointing, Zavahier thought, but since he hadn’t been sure of the artefact’s worth, maybe Harkun was right to dismiss it as irrelevant.

On the other hand, Harkun was also ready to assume the holocron wasn’t what Zavahier said it was. So based on that, it was equally possible that the tablet held the long lost secrets of Marka Ragnos, and would change the fate of the entire galaxy. Zavahier liked that theory more, because it fit in nicely with his current opinion of himself. The Empire would prevail against all its enemies because of _him_.

But it didn’t stop him being a little annoyed at the accusation of holocron theft.

“I didn’t steal it,” Zavahier told Harkun irritably. Just because he’d kept Darth Tarn’s holocron longer than he should have didn’t mean _every_ holocron he touched was stolen. But then, should he really have expected anything else from Harkun? Harkun wouldn’t believe Zavahier was capable of anything he set his mind to, even if he witnessed it with his own two eyes. Zavahier reminded himself that it wasn’t Harkun’s opinion that mattered anyway; Lord Zash would know the holocron was genuine.

“I’ll deal with you later, slave,” Harkun said menacingly, a clear threat hanging onto his every word. Then he turned his attention to the group as a whole. “Now, I believe it’s time for another demonstration. Gerr, step forward.”

“Yes, Overseer,” Gerr said, looking anxious as he obeyed the command. He stepped away from Balek’s side and moved towards Harkun. All three of the weaker acolytes had taken to sticking close together recently, as if there were safety in numbers. By calling Gerr forward, Harkun was separating him from the other two, removing the only sense of safety the man had.

This would be interesting.

“Ffon, kill him,” Harkun said darkly.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be so interesting after all. Gerr was weak, yes, and certainly not worthy of becoming Sith. And if Harkun was ready to kill him, then it meant Gerr had probably not performed well on his last trial. But watching Ffon kill someone so much weaker wasn’t much of a demonstration. Zavahier had killed plenty of weaker acolytes; he didn’t need Ffon to show him how it was done.

“With pleasure, Overseer,” Ffon said, smiling maliciously at Gerr. The weaker acolyte took one look at the Sith Pureblood, and then bolted in the opposite direction, making a run for the exit. Ffon hit him in the back with a jolt of lightning, and Gerr fell to the floor, twitching. Ffon stepped towards him and finished him off with a swipe of his weapon; it seemed Ffon had upgraded from the non-lethal training blade to a vibrosword.

Zavahier had to resist the temptation to send a jolt of lightning at the vibrosword’s energy cell. It would grievously injure Ffon, perhaps even relieving him of an entire limb, but doing so right in front of Harkun would be incredibly stupid. Zavahier wasn’t that reckless. But he would get his chance soon enough. One day he would meet Ffon in the tombs, and he would eliminate him then. If Ffon kept that vibrosword, killing him would be ridiculously easy. Not _quite_ as easy as shooting a terrified man in the back as he ran for safety, but Zavahier saw more value in destroying an enemy that pushed him to become stronger, than in killing someone like Gerr.

“Let Gerr be an example to you. Ffon destroyed him easily, like he will destroy all of you,” Harkun said. “Are there any other objections?”

“Hmmm… Ffon is _very_ impressive, isn’t he? Hitting a terrified man in the back. That’s brave,” Zavahier commented.

“Why don’t I kill you as well then, slave?” Ffon suggested, shifting into a combat stance, poised and ready to strike.

It really would take just one little spark to the energy cell of Ffon’s weapon…

It was incredibly tempting, and not just because it would seriously hurt Ffon. It would be violent and destructive, and thus it would also be incredibly satisfying. Killing Ffon was the thing Zavahier most wanted to have a chance to do before he became Zash’s apprentice. From the moment they’d first met on the transport to Korriban, Ffon had sneered at him, believing him weak and unworthy, and he was the only true rival Zavahier had at the Academy. Killing him, especially by making his weapon explode, would be wonderful.

And it would be hilarious to witness just because Ffon wouldn’t be expecting it. He didn’t think Zavahier capable of doing him any _real_ damage; as a former slave, without the benefit of any training or education, Zavahier _had_ to be too stupid and weak to ever be a genuine threat. Ffon was going to be _so_ surprised when he realised just how wrong he was.

“After you’ve been sitting around in the archives all day while I’ve been doing _real_ work? Too scared to face me when I’m rested, Ffon?” Zavahier asked, taking the opportunity to insult Ffon’s strength a second time, because… well, the other acolyte had walked right into that one, hadn’t he? Yet that didn’t mean Zavahier wasn’t ready to fight Ffon. Far from it. He knew himself to be the more powerful Sith, thanks in part to Harkun making sure he always faced greater challenges, pushing him to constantly strengthen himself. He felt quite confident in his ability to defeat his fellow acolyte and most powerful rival.

After all, Zavahier could do the impossible.

“Come on then, let’s go,” Zavahier said, dropping Shâsot onto the floor to free his hands for the duel, and then summoning some purple lightning to his fingertips, ready for the moment when Ffon would attack him. The Tuk’ata pup stood next to him, growling at Ffon in a way that would have been intimidating if it had actually been an adult beast. As a tiny pup that didn’t even reach Zavahier’s knee, it wasn’t very frightening at all.

Ffon gave a snort of laughter. “That’s the best you can do? A tiny little spark, and another pathetic little pet? You’ll be easier to destroy than Gerr, slave.”

This was something Zavahier had noticed several times now. Harkun and Ffon readily used the names of the other acolytes, but he was always merely ‘slave’. He recognised it for what it was, though: by refusing to use his name and treating him as though he were still a slave, they tried to dehumanise him, to reinforce the feeling of still being property. It was an attempt to weaken him. But it didn’t work; while there were parts of being free that Zavahier was still getting used to, he had always known he was a person, a sentient being, even when Imperial law had not considered him as such. Zavahier had always known exactly who he was. Nothing Harkun or Ffon could do would take that away from him. The constant reminders that he had once been a slave did anger him, of course… but that only strengthened him.

“A little spark is all I need to destroy you. But I thought I’d give you the chance to make your excuses and run away like a scared little Gizka,” Zavahier said. He was deliberately trying to goad Ffon into attacking him, because if he struck first, then Harkun would kill him. Ffon had to make the first move, and then Zavahier would be free to defend himself… and kill Ffon in the process. “I bet you _can’t_ fight, Ffon. The only time you manage to kill anyone, it’s when you hit them from behind. Is that how you got Niloc? Is that all you can do? Sneak up on the weak?”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Balek shift uncomfortably. Both he and Wydr had been watching the confrontation between Zavahier and Ffon, but it was the mention of Niloc’s death that really caught their attention. They had all known it was Ffon who’d killed Niloc, but none of them had dared to say it right to the Sith Pureblood himself. Not until this moment.

“You insolent worm!” Ffon snarled, and he raised his hand, ready to attack.

Zavahier prepared to dodge out of the way. But there was no need. Harkun physically separated them with a blast of Force energy, and snapped, “Enough, both of you. Dismissed!”

Ffon sauntered out of the Overseer’s office, pretending that he hadn’t been about to fight Zavahier there and then. Balek and Wydr scurried away as quickly as they could, while Zavahier stooped briefly to retrieve Shâsot, before turning to leave as well. But he hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Harkun called him back.

“Not you, slave. I’m not done with you yet,” the Overseer said. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“I’m sure you’ve asked me that before,” Zavahier interrupted, just because he knew it would annoy Harkun further. He was, perhaps, pushing it a little, but mocking Harkun was fun, and this evening Zavahier felt like he could do absolutely anything. “But I know how much you enjoy my intelligence.”

The Overseer scowled at him, and very much looked like he wanted to just kill Zavahier there and then. But he didn’t. Zavahier wondered if Lord Zash had forbidden him to do so, at least as long as Zavahier was passing the trials and consistently proving himself to be strong. Harkun was powerless, and they both knew it.

“Turning up covered in blood and reeking of death, bringing me a stolen holocron… trying to goad Ffon into killing you quickly,” Harkun continued. “None of it will work. You’re worthless, and the only reason you’re still alive is Lord Zash finds you useful. But you will never be her apprentice. You will never be anything but a slave.”

“I’m already more than a slave,” Zavahier replied. Even though he knew better than to expect anything else, it annoyed him that the Overseer wouldn’t acknowledge his power. He was every bit Ffon’s equal – no, _better_ – yet Harkun refused to see it. “I’m stronger than Ffon. And that’s just gnawing at your innards, isn’t it? Nothing you can do will stop me.”

“Shut up, slave!” Harkun snapped, and Zavahier realised just a moment too late that he had actually gone a little too far. The Overseer struck him with a bolt of lightning, not strong enough to kill him, but it still hurt, and he staggered, forced to brace his hand against the wall to stay on his feet. Shâsot yelped when the lightning hit him as well, and he wriggled out of Zavahier’s grasp and dropped to the floor, snarling angrily and baring his tiny fangs.

“It’s a shame Lord Zash wants you alive… for now. Get out. Get yourself cleaned up, and get rid of that vermin. Slaves aren’t allowed pets,” Harkun said darkly, with the threat of further punishment hanging in the air if Zavahier didn’t comply.

A little humiliated, but undaunted and unrepentant, Zavahier quickly retrieved Shâsot and then left Harkun’s office with his head held high. He had gotten a little carried away, pushed by his own confidence… yet he was still alive. For all Harkun’s threats, it was evident that he couldn’t kill Zavahier without angering Lord Zash, at least until Zavahier actually failed one of his trials… which obviously would not happen. So the shock from Harkun didn’t change anything. It didn’t mean Zavahier needed to fear death. It was just another reason to hate the Overseer. Another thing to be angry about. More power.

But he absolutely would _not_ be disposing of Shâsot. The Tuk’ata pup was _his_. Zavahier had already lost the amulet, and he had lost Dran to Ffon, and he would _not_ allow Harkun to take Shâsot from him too. Slaves might not be allowed pets, and nor were acolytes. But _Sith_ could have pets. And the future Emperor of the entire galaxy certainly could. So really, the only problem here was a matter of _timing_ , and what self-respecting Sith would allow something like that to get in his way?

Clearly Zavahier would have to find a place to hide his new pet, as he should have done with the amulet. As he should have done with Dran. And once he was an apprentice, he wouldn’t have to tolerate these arbitrary restrictions on what he could and couldn’t do. He would have all the things he wanted, and nobody would be able to stop him. He wouldn’t let them. He would fight – and kill – to keep what he claimed as his.

In the short term, he would have to take a less confrontational approach. That was a little new for him; as Rawste’s slave, he’d always taken a more direct route to defiance. But things were different now. Zavahier had changed a lot since arriving on Korriban. He’d learned that when he actually had real power and control over his existence, it paid to be devious. The life of a Sith was one of cunning power plays. He would still have his way – he would keep Shâsot – but he would do so in a way that Harkun didn’t know what he was doing, and so that Shâsot was protected from Ffon until he was large enough to protect himself.

So he needed to find a place where Shâsot would be safe. Zavahier considered returning to Lord Renning, but dismissed that idea because he wasn’t completely certain the man wouldn’t simply end up dissecting Shâsot out of curiosity. The Lower Wilds were also a great distance away, and if he was constantly coming back and forth by speeder, eventually Harkun or Ffon would wonder what he was up to, just as his frequent visits to the tomb of Ajunta Pall had drawn attention. No, he would need somewhere closer to conceal the Tuk’ata pup.

Perhaps one of the other tombs that were located closer to the Academy?

Zavahier disliked that idea as well, because there would always be other acolytes exploring those tombs, which would run the risk of Shâsot being discovered and killed. K’lor’slug infestations were still a problem in many of the tombs as well, and the tombs also had the same problem as the Lower Wilds: if Zavahier was constantly coming and going from one particular place, people would begin to wonder why.

That left only the Academy as a viable option, but even that had its risks. It wouldn’t be easy to hide even a small beast within the pyramid itself, because there would always be plenty of Sith around, as well as regular soldiers. And keeping Shâsot in the barracks was out, for obvious reasons.

No, what Zavahier needed was a place where Shâsot’s presence wouldn’t raise any questions at all. Where the Tuk’ata would not draw any undue attention even if it was seen.

And that was when the solution came to him: the Academy’s beastmaster might have a place for Shâsot to stay, and he would likely also be able to advise Zavahier on training techniques as well. While Zavahier wasn’t completely sure the man could be trusted – he was another Sith, after all – he would at least have the necessary expertise… and as an Academy Overseer, he would have a certain obligation to provide advice to acolytes.

It was the best option currently available to him, so Zavahier headed down the corridor from Harkun’s office, and went into the area where the beastmaster did most of his work. Numerous cages and pens lined the walls, some holding specimens of Korriban’s various wildlife – including a small number of Tuk’ata – and others currently empty. Working at the end of a row of cages was the beastmaster himself, Overseer Prithor.

Currently, he was supervising a group of slaves feeding the beasts, giving orders and watching coldly as they were followed. One slave seemed reluctant to enter a cage inhabited by a large K’lor’slug, but his hesitation earned him a painful jolt of electricity via his shock collar. Zavahier instinctively flinched as well, because the sight of it - and the emotions he felt from the slave - were entirely too familiar to him. His life on Caekarro hadn’t been much different to this, and despite how much things had changed since arriving on Korriban - almost two months ago now! - this room was an uncomfortable reminder of where he’d come from.

Overseer Prithor turned towards him, looking him up and down, taking in his appearance. “What do you want?” he asked impatiently. “I’m training slaves to feed the beasts, and I don’t have time to chat.”

“I found this Tuk’ata pup. I want to train it to be useful,” Zavahier said, leaving unsaid the other part of why he was here: to find a place to hide Shâsot where Harkun couldn’t interfere.

“I see,” Prithor responded, a little more interested now that he knew Zavahier wasn’t simply here to waste his time. He looked Zavahier up and down, taking in his current appearance, but ultimately choosing to make no comment on it. Instead, he said, “You’re Ezerdus, aren’t you? One of Harkun’s acolytes?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Zavahier said with a nod. And to hear his name used, after Harkun had made such a point of _not_ using it, seemed like nothing more than proof of how little Harkun’s opinion mattered. Even this Overseer he’d never even _met_ before knew who he was! “Can you help me or not?”

“Acolytes aren’t supposed to have pets, you know,” Prithor said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “But… it’s a rare acolyte that has an interest in beasts. Most consider them mindless and unworthy of their notice. They don’t appreciate how useful they can be.”

“I’ve always liked animals,” Zavahier said. In many ways, he preferred them to people. At least beasts didn’t look down on him for being a former slave. Admittedly, he liked bugs the most, but he had to appreciate the strength and power that seemed to course through Korriban’s Tuk’ata. Shâsot had far too much potential to simply be discarded. “But I’ve never tried to train one before. It wouldn’t really be a _pet_. Training it would be a valuable lesson. I’d learn a lot, and isn’t that what this Academy is for?”

Prithor acknowledged that with just the barest hints of a smile. “Well, I can’t refuse an acolyte who _asks_ to be taught. Let’s have a look at your pup,” he said, striding towards Zavahier and taking the Tuk’ata from him, holding it up by the scruff of its neck and inspecting it closely. “Hmmm… male, approximately eight weeks old, plenty of potential…”

“His mother was a mutant Tuk’ata I killed for Lord Renning,” Zavahier said. “I’ve called him Shâsot.”

Prithor’s thin mouth twitched into a small smile. “‘Passion’. Not very original, but I suppose I can’t fault you. You would hardly be the first Sith to name a beast ‘passion’. And if this pup is indeed the spawn of a mutant Tuk’ata, then he may be powerful when fully grown.” He handed Shâsot back to Zavahier.

“I’m glad you agree. I think he will be useful. Will you help me train him?”

Prithor nodded. “Of course. Better that you learn to control your… ‘project’, than have him killing other acolytes.”

“Except the ones I want him to kill,” Zavahier said, thinking of Ffon.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Prithor said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Now, for the moment, your focus will be on basic obedience training. Tuk’ata are intelligent enough to understand speech, which will make this task easier. Focus on basic commands at first: come, stay, follow, and sit. The main thing to watch out for is Tuk’ata have much stronger wills than other animals. You will need to earn his respect before you have his obedience, as the Force alone won’t be enough to dominate him,” Prithor said. “Be strong, make sure he knows who’s boss, but don’t bully him. There is a fine line between the two that many Sith fail to appreciate.”

“You don’t need to worry about that with me. I don’t intend to abuse him,” Zavahier said. All his experiences with Rawste and Harkun had given him many opportunities to discover the fine line between respect and fear. While the latter would be useful to him, he knew it wasn’t the solution to every problem. A truly loyal servant, whether it was a person or a beast, would be treated well. Only Zavahier’s enemies needed to fear him.

There was really only one final thing to ask. Zavahier couldn’t see any way around telling the truth of the situation at this point. But Prithor’s behaviour so far had suggested he was willing to be reasonable and offer his advice. While Zavahier didn’t exactly trust him, he was fulfilling the role of a good instructor better than Harkun ever had. “May I keep Shâsot here with the other beasts when I’m not training him? Overseer Harkun… doesn’t exactly approve of me keeping him.”

Prithor responded with a nod. “Of course. I had a pet when I was an acolyte too,” he said, sharing the fact that he too had broken Academy rules. It seemed that he understood at least some of Zavahier’s motivations for wanting to keep Shâsot despite Harkun’s disapproval. Prithor moved over to one of the empty cages and opened the door, before gesturing for Zavahier to place Shâsot inside. “You can keep him in there. But he’s still your responsibility. You make sure that he’s fed every day, and that you train him – though you are still free to seek my advice on training at any point.”

Zavahier placed Shâsot into the cage, patted him on the head, and then stepped out, closing the door behind him. “Do I need to hunt and kill something for him to eat or do you have fodder I can use?”

There was an amused chuckle from Prithor. “No, you can use my supply of fodder. But you do it yourself, rather than using my slaves,” he said, pointing out the crates of beast fodder at the other end of the room.

“I don’t need slaves,” Zavahier said as he went over to the crates, syphoning out a bowl of fodder for Shâsot, and then returning to the cage to place the bowl inside.

“Here you go, Shâsot. This is all for you,” he said to the Tuk’ata, watching as he began devouring the food with great enthusiasm. Apparently he was hungry. “I need to get going now, but I’ll be back later, I promise,” he added, letting a little softness creep into his voice. Not something he would have allowed anyone else to hear. He wanted Shâsot to thrive, to be useful… and more than that, he wanted the Tuk’ata to _like_ him. Shâsot had the potential to be a loyal and trusted companion in the way that another person never would be. Even Dran was not comparable.

And maybe Zavahier needed a little of that in his life. A little bit of closeness. Though it was a rather difficult thing to admit. It was a complicated feeling, and it probably made him weak. As important as his emotions were, Zavahier still knew that some of them would not serve him well. He would need to think on it. Yet he was also sure Shâsot’s loyalty would be worth it in the end.

But the painkillers from the medpacs he’d used earlier were beginning to wear off now, so he couldn’t stay much longer. There was an ache in his muscles, and the wounds on his leg, shoulder and arm were starting to sting. The pain would only get worse, so it was time to head over to the medical bay and get some proper medical attention.

“I’ll be back,” he promised again, and then finally turned away from Shâsot. Then he nodded to Prithor. “I’m grateful for your help. But I have other matters to attend to.”

“I hope one of those things is a shower,” Prithor commented.

“Yes, that is definitely on my list,” Zavahier said. He had gotten rather filthy during his expedition to the tomb of Marka Ragnos, and if it hadn’t been for other things that were more important – like Shâsot and the wounds he’d sustained – bathing would have been the first on his list of priorities.

With nothing more to say to Prithor, he left the beastmaster to his charges and team of slaves, and made his way slowly through the Academy. His leg hurt, and he couldn’t walk as swiftly as he would have liked, but at least it wasn’t very far. He limped into the medical bay, and sat down on the nearest bed, looking around for Karroh; he found him almost immediately, several beds over, having his injuries treated by one of the doctors.

“I see you survived Harkun,” Karroh remarked.

Zavahier responded with a nod. “Yes. He was once again incredibly disappointed that I returned alive,” he said, but did not expand on the full details of what had happened in Harkun’s office. The fact that he’d gone a step too far and been punished for his efforts wasn’t really in keeping of the image of himself that he wanted to project. Not even to Karroh.

His arrival in the medical bay had been noted, and a second doctor approached him; Zavahier met his gaze, and saw a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes. He frowned at Zavahier, and then looked across at Karroh. “Oh, it’s you two. Been trying to murder each other again?” he asked, unable to disguise the disapproval in his voice.

“No, we both just got hurt on our trials. Separately,” Zavahier replied.

“And then we joined forces to kill a monster,” Karroh added.

Then they exchanged a brief grin. It _had_ been rather fun, hadn’t it? Even if they had both gotten injured, it had absolutely been worth it. Wounds would heal, but the pleasure that came from victory felt like nothing else. Zavahier wanted to feel like this every day of his life. To feel strong and powerful, to feel like he could do anything. He’d retrieved an impossible holocron, and he’d killed a terrible beast. He’d even secured victory over Harkun by finding a way to keep Shâsot right here in the Academy, and that felt wonderful too.

The only limit was what he could imagine for himself.

Of course, at present his imagination was limited by his narrow experience as a slave. But with each day that passed, he learned more about the Force. He learned more about his place in Imperial society. And he learned more about himself. Day by day, his power became greater, and his options broader. It was only a matter of time before he really could do _anything_.

But now he sat still while the doctor cleaned and treated his wounds properly, doing a much better job of it than Zavahier had done with his inexpert use of the medpacs earlier. The pain faded away, and the kolto began to knit the torn skin and muscle back together. Each of the wounds were covered in bandages, and Zavahier’s torn and blood-stained clothing was disposed of, replaced with identical ones from the Academy’s stores.

“You should stay here tonight, allow your body to heal before you find more trouble tomorrow,” the doctor said at last, and then he nodded in the direction of Karroh. “At least you’ll have some company.”

“Yep,” Karroh said. “I’m staying the night as well. Fancy a game of Pazaak?”

Zavahier considered this, and then smiled. “Sure. But I’m going to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness in posting this chapter. I was out on a fossil hunting trip yesterday and didn't get back until late.


	23. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Sith who trust each other may in fact be the deadliest thing in the galaxy.

Rested and recuperated – for the most part, anyway – Zavahier and Karroh parted ways again the next morning when they left the medical bay. They’d had an enjoyable evening playing Pazaak, and Karroh had been a challenging opponent to play against, especially given Zavahier’s lack of experience with the game. And now that he’d rested, relaxed, and his wounds had started to heal, Zavahier was ready for another adventure. Unfortunately, he didn’t have another trial to challenge him. The next one wouldn’t be for a few weeks yet. There weren’t even any training sessions scheduled for today.

So he would have to find some other way of entertaining himself.

He already had a few ideas for that. He’d been tormenting Balek and Wydr for long enough, and now felt like the right time to start talking to them again. In the aftermath of Gerr’s death at Ffon’s hands, and Zavahier’s open defiance of both Ffon and Harkun, now was the perfect time to let his other two rivals think he had forgiven them.

He hadn’t, of course.

He fully intended to kill them both. Painfully. When they least expected it.

But only once he’d had his fun with them.

But not yet. Not right now. He had several other matters to attend to first, because although he wanted to get some practice in manipulation, torture and betrayal, he was also quite certain that he wasn’t going to be the kind of Sith that placed his own amusement as a higher priority than his responsibilities. And his highest responsibility right now was to Shâsot. Overseer Prithor had been quite clear on that front. And Zavahier knew he wouldn’t earn the Tuk’ata’s loyalty by ignoring him.

So after leaving the medical bay and watching Karroh go to report his success in his trial, Zavahier went in the opposite direction, making his way through the Academy to the beast pens. Neither Prithor nor his team of slaves were present, which was something of a relief; Zavahier wanted to spend some quality time with Shâsot, hopefully with the result of starting to form a bond with the beast, and that would be easier without anybody watching.

The Tuk’ata pup began scrabbling at the door to his cage when Zavahier approached, and immediately darted out when the door was opened. Shâsot didn’t attempt to run away, though; instead he circled Zavahier’s legs, making strange sounds that were a little like growling, but not wholly aggressive. Zavahier could sense _some_ anger from Shâsot, as the Tuk’ata didn’t much care for being caged, but he was also quite sure Shâsot was also at least a little pleased to see him.

“Are you hungry, Shâsot?” Zavahier asked, almost tripping over the Tuk’ata as he made his way over to the crates of beast fodder.  He scooped out enough for a decent sized meal for his pet, but not so much as to make Shâsot sleepy. Then he set the bowl down on the floor and stepped back, allowing Shâsot to feed; it turned out the young Tuk’ata was indeed hungry, and he eagerly devoured the bowl of food while Zavahier watched.

Once Shâsot was done, Zavahier retreated a short distance, and then said, “Shâsot, come.”

The Tuk’ata eyed him warily, as if trying to work out whether he respected Zavahier enough to obey the command. Then, when Zavahier pressed against Shâsot’s mind with the Force, just enough to prove his strength rather than as an attempt to dominate the pup, Shâsot trotted forward, and received a little morsel of food as a reward. That was how to train a beast: reward good behaviour and obedience with something the creature would like. And the Force helped with that by fostering both trust and respect.

Zavahier strode away from Shâsot, and then repeated the process, calling the Tuk’ata to him and then rewarding him each time he obeyed, while also familiarising him with the unique feel of Zavahier’s power in the Force, using it to create a weak bond between himself and the Tuk’ata. He could sense Shâsot’s feelings, and in turn, Shâsot would learn to know what Zavahier wanted him to do without the need for spoken commands.

Within half an hour, Shâsot was consistently coming to Zavahier whenever he was called. But the Tuk’ata was still young, and had neither the strength nor the concentration for long training sessions. So when Zavahier felt the Tuk’ata’s attention beginning to wander, he placed Shâsot back inside his cage. The Tuk’ata curled up in a corner and yawned, baring his tiny fangs, and Zavahier stroked his pet’s white mane, before leaving him to sleep. Thirty minutes of training was sufficient, given Shâsot’s age. He could come back later.

Besides, he had a lot of other matters to take care of today. Zavahier left the stables, and headed out of the Academy. He didn’t head into the depths of the Valley itself, though, but instead followed the path along the front of the pyramid, going towards a group of smaller buildings and tents that were primarily used by non-Sith personnel. Zavahier hadn’t really paid them much attention during his time on Korriban, but right now, they had something he wanted.

Armour.

The injuries he’d sustained in the tomb of Marka Ragnos had been a clear warning: Harkun wasn’t going to stop trying to get him killed, and Imperial soldiers and other Sith weren’t going to stop asking him to complete dangerous errands. While those latter tasks _could_ be declined, Zavahier didn’t see the sense in doing so; the more he challenged himself, the stronger he would become. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was woefully under-equipped to deal with the more dangerous aspects of life as a Sith.

Since it had been Karroh’s suggestion that he get himself some armour, Zavahier had taken the opportunity the previous evening to ask him exactly where he should go and who he should speak to: one of the buildings alongside the Academy was used as a supplies warehouse, and there were logistics officers who would provide him with whatever he needed.

A little uncertain about exactly how assertive he needed to be in this situation, Zavahier entered the building and approached the nearest man who didn’t seem to be otherwise occupied. “I’m told I can get some armour here,” he said to the man, settling on just stating his needs and seeing where that got him. Assertive, confident, but not aggressive. There was no need to get argumentative about it unless he was told ‘no’, after all.

The man eyed him for a moment. “You’re a Sith acolyte, right?” he asked. “Keen on not getting killed?”

“Something like that, yes,” Zavahier confirmed.

“No problem, sir. I’ll get you sorted out,” he said, before retrieving a small scanner, which he held up to take some readings. “Hold still, and let’s just take a few measurements. There’s nothing worse than poorly fitting armour, let me tell you…”

The man continued rambling to himself as the scanner took Zavahier’s measurements, but soon he moved on to asking a few general questions about what features Zavahier needed in his armour… forcing Zavahier to admit that he wasn’t actually certain. How was he supposed to know what he needed when he’d never actually used armour before?

Fortunately, it seemed this wasn’t an entirely unforeseen circumstance, and the man – who introduced himself as Stavas – adapted to Zavahier’s lack of knowledge by instead asking questions about his fighting style and Force abilities. A Sith who relied on a weapon and engaged in melee combat had completely different needs to one who utilised the raw power of the Force from a distance. And while heavy armour worked well for someone with a lot of pure physical strength, it would be exhausting for someone smaller and lighter.

And then there was the matter of style, since a Sith who wanted to be respected needed to _look_ the part. Sith armour was as much about intimidation as it was protection. But the more elaborate the design, the more it would cost.

That limited Zavahier’s options quite substantially, since he had so few credits to his name. But by the time he was done, he had a set of lightly armoured robes that he was quite pleased with… though they cost him almost every credit he had earned during his time on Korriban. The expense was worth it, though; not only did he now actually _look_ like a Sith, equipped with long robes of black and purple – chosen to accent his unusual purple lightning, of course – but he would now be somewhat protected from both standard blaster fire _and_ the effects of other acolytes’ training sabres.

His armour was much lighter than that worn by Karroh, but Zavahier had been inclined to agree with Stavas’ assessment that he was better suited to staying manoeuvrable and not weighed down. It was also currently too large for him; despite what Stavas had said about poorly fitting armour, he’d also taken into account the fact that Zavahier was small and thin for his age, and could expect to gain weight and muscle – and maybe even a little height – over the next few years. And with his limited finances, it was better to have armour he could use for more than a few months, even if it didn’t fit him perfectly.

He’d also spent a few credits on some several sets of loose black robes to wear during those times when comfort was more important than survivability, such as when he was studying in the archives. They weren’t silk, but they were softer than the robes from the Academy’s stores, and had a slightly iridescent purple sheen when the light caught them. He was wearing his new robes now, and carried his armour and spare robes in a wrapped bundle, heading back towards the pyramid with a pleased bounce in his step.

Zavahier had never really thought of himself as being particularly vain. As a slave, he’d never had the opportunity to look his best, and had therefore cared very little about his appearance. After all, why worry about the things that he couldn’t change?

But things were different now. His appearance was something he now had some control over, and he had to admit that there was something quite enjoyable about having nice things to call his own. If he was still a little rough around the edges, and his robes too loose on his body, that suited him just fine. Let Ffon be the overdressed one with fine robes from his privileged upbringing. Zavahier had the things he needed, and they would serve their purposes. And ultimately, he _wanted_ people to be a little uncertain of him. The contrast between his new clothing and the lingering traces of slavery – an underfed body and ugly scars on his neck and back, and a tattoo on his wrist – would certainly help with that. It would make them wonder if he really was a Sith, or just playing at being one.

Not ideal in the long run, but he was happy to let them think that for the time being. Let them all continue to underestimate him. Especially Harkun and Ffon.

Zavahier had considered the possibility that he was, perhaps, getting a little ahead of himself, investing in such things before he had officially become an apprentice. But he dismissed that notion quickly. If he didn’t succeed in becoming Zash’s apprentice, then he wouldn’t have any need of those credits anyway. Better to spend them now, on possessions he could enjoy immediately, than risk losing them all. With his future still somewhat uncertain, Zavahier didn’t see the point in planning too far ahead. And if he _wanted_ to succeed, he needed to survive Harkun’s increasingly difficult challenges, and that meant he couldn’t let himself get injured over and over again. The armour was definitely the best possible use of his credits.

It did, however, mean that he didn’t have enough left to pay for speeder piloting lessons, which was the other thing he’d wanted to spend his credits on today. This was a little disappointing, but it was ultimately a low priority right now.

And it opened up the rest of the day to engage in whatever activity he chose. Which meant it was time to let Balek and Wydr know that he was prepared to be civil to them once again.

Oh, he would certainly be stabbing them in the back – literally or metaphorically – the very moment it suited him to do so. They were rivals, after all. Enemies to be manipulated, used and then discarded.

Or toyed with.

So when he walked into the barracks, he gave Balek and Wydr a smile and a nod by way of a greeting, before crouching by the second security locker at the foot of his bed, placing his new armour safely inside. This was the locker intended for the lower bunk, but it had a working lock, unlike the one Ffon had broken into. Zavahier might be prepared to pretend that Balek and Wydr were friends now, but that didn’t mean he was going to trust them with his most valuable possessions.

“What have you got there, Ezerdus?” Balek asked after a moment, seeming torn between curiosity and fear.

“That’s my new armour. All part of my grand plan to not give Harkun the satisfaction of killing me,” Zavahier replied, closing the chest and locking it. Then he turned back to Balek, studying him thoughtfully. He certainly looked like the strain of training was getting to him, with a subtly harassed look in his eyes. Zavahier’s efforts at tormenting him over the last few days had certainly contributed to that.

Good.

Wydr didn’t look much different, though he seemed to be bearing it better than his twin brother was. Yet still… Zavahier got the distinct impression that neither of them were happy here. They weren’t cut out to be Sith, and they knew it. But there was something else… something more. An emotion that he hadn’t been able to sense before. They didn’t feel at home on Korriban the way he did. Its dark power didn’t inspire them, it intimidated them. They didn’t have the same intrinsic connection to the dark side of the Force. A different world played on their thoughts, and when Zavahier focused, he could sense a vague impression of grassland and mountains.

Balek and Wydr were homesick for Balmorra.

How had he not sensed that before? Obviously he hadn’t been paying enough attention to his rival acolytes. He’d been so busy focusing on his own problems that he hadn’t spent enough time finding his enemies’ weaknesses. But now he knew. Now he could use it against them.

“The way you stood up to Harkun and Ffon last night was… amazing,” Balek said after a moment or two. “Especially after Ffon killed Gerr.”

“It was just reckless, if you ask me,” Wydr commented, not sounding at all impressed. “It’s all just a game to you, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I’m taking this very seriously,” Zavahier replied. “I’m doing what I need to. I intend to survive this. And with any luck, you two will as well.”

Wydr gave him another very doubtful look. “And why exactly should we believe that? You electrocuted Balek until he lost consciousness the day before yesterday.”

“I was angry. You were all torturing me for weeks,” Zavahier said bluntly. “But while I was working on Harkun’s so-called ‘impossible’ task, I realised my anger was focused on the wrong people. You two aren’t my enemies.”

It was a lie. But it only took a little effort to mask his true feelings, hiding his deception from these two much weaker acolytes. They weren’t strong enough in the Force to detect the truth. And then he held out his hand to Wydr. “There’s no need for any more animosity between us. Truce?” he offered.

Wydr and Balek looked at each other, and there seemed to be a silent communication between them, before they both turned back to Zavahier. Wydr took the outstretched hand and shook it. “Truce.”

Zavahier then offered his hand to Balek, who followed his brother’s lead, confirming that he too was willing to accept a truce between them. Zavahier smiled again, pleased at just how easy that had been. But he wasn’t done yet. He still needed to make them trust him. “Right, now here’s my plan. I’m going to become Lord Zash’s apprentice. Ffon is going to die. Harkun will be humiliated. And you two will go home.”

Balek and Wydr were silent for a few moments, just staring at him in mild disbelief. Wydr was the first to speak. “How are you going to achieve all that?”

“I haven’t decided yet. But I think a large quantity of lightning will be required,” Zavahier replied. He couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at that, just imagining what he was going to do to his enemies. All of them. “But as long as you and I have different goals, you’re perfectly safe from me,” he told them, meeting both their gazes, willing them to trust his word.

It was all a lie, of course. Zavahier knew there was no chance of Balek and Wydr being allowed to go free. The strongest acolytes became apprentices, and all the others died. But by letting them believe they might be able to return to Balmorra once Zavahier had secured his place as Zash’s apprentice, it meant they would be more willing to do whatever he told them. Or at the very least, they wouldn’t get in his way.

“I believe you,” Balek said quietly. Apparently they wanted to feel safe so desperately that they willingly believed everything Zavahier had told them. “I mean… I was beginning to wonder what—who you were turning into. It’s obvious you’re more suited to this life than we are. All this violence and death comes naturally to you. But I guess underneath it all, you’re still a decent guy.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re alright…” Wydr agreed, a little more hesitantly.

Both of them were complete idiots, weren’t they?

Zavahier spent the next hour relaxing with Balek and Wydr, just as a show of good faith and to prove that after all the pain and violence on both sides, he wasn’t holding any grudges. Even though it was all an act, it actually was quite nice to be able to talk to them again. Being ostracised by the other acolytes had been an unpleasant and lonely experience, tolerable only because of Karroh’s friendship. Yet at the same time, there was something a little strange about the feeling of talking to and relaxing with people he fully intended on killing. It made things very complicated. His relationship with Ffon was a lot simpler, certainly.

But unless he wanted to go mad with loneliness, socialising with his enemies was a necessary evil. Every Sith he spoke to was someone who would eventually try to kill him… unless he killed them first. There was simply no getting around that fact. So he would play the game. And he would play to _win_. But it nevertheless made this time chatting to Balek and Wydr a rather strange and surreal experience.

After a while, though, he thought he’d made enough of an effort to prove himself a friend to his two fellow acolytes, and was just beginning to look for an excuse to leave, when he was provided with one by the arrival of Karroh in the barracks. Karroh caught Zavahier’s eye, indicating without a word that he wanted to speak in private.

“This looks important. I’ll see you later,” Zavahier said to Balek and Wydr, before leaving them and heading over to Karroh, and then followed him out of the barracks. They went down the corridor together, before ducking into an empty room.

“I met Darth Baras,” Karroh said. “He felt it when I killed the Beast of Marka Ragnos, and he was… not very happy.”

“You still seem to be alive, though,” Zavahier pointed out.

Karroh nodded an affirmative. “Only because he blames Tremel for rushing through my training too quickly. He’s ordered me to kill him.”

Zavahier blinked in surprise. “That’s…” he began, before trailing off.

“Unexpected. I know. It’s because Tremel has been favouring me, while Baras thinks Vemrin is more worthy because he’s had to fight to get where he is. Well, I suppose the whole situation isn’t too different to the way things are between you, Ffon and Harkun,” Karroh said, before shrugging.

That was a thought that Zavahier had had more than once during his time on Korriban as well. Karroh received a lot of the same kind of preferential treatment that Ffon did, and in turn, Vemrin had to struggle for everything much as Zavahier had to. But as far as Zavahier was concerned, the similarities ended there; he was better than Vemrin, and Karroh was better than Ffon.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“What I have to. I’m going to kill Tremel,” Karroh replied, though it didn’t sound like he would take much joy in it. “And I was going to ask if you would be willing to provide some backup. I’m pretty sure I can kill him, but he’s a lot more experienced than me, and I’d rather not leave anything to chance.”

Zavahier considered this for a moment, before shrugging. “Alright, why not? But you’ll owe me,” he said, though in truth… well, he would have done it just for the challenge, and to help out a friend. But he was pretty sure that Karroh knew that.

“I’ll help you take out Harkun one day,” Karroh suggested.

“You have a deal,” Zavahier said with a smile. Of course, without having a high ranking Sith giving him permission to kill Harkun, it was unlikely it would happen any time soon. But one day, he would have the opportunity, and on that day, it would definitely be useful to have someone like Karroh as support.

They returned to the barracks together, and Zavahier changed out of his robes and into his new armour. They were just robes of a different sort, really, less loose and flowing, but still trailing to the ground, and with a hood that he pulled up to cover his head. It was impossible to look intimidating with curly hair, in Zavahier’s opinion. Much better to hide it. The main protection of these robes was over his torso, shoulders and arms, protecting him from mortal wounds without restricting his movement. And although he didn’t expect to be using it, he took his training blade as well. Just in case. But Karroh would be doing the real fighting; he readied his warblade, and donned his own much heavier armour.

Of course, all this drew a bit of attention from the other acolytes.

“What are you two up to?” Ffon asked in a dark voice; he had apparently returned to the barracks at some point after Zavahier had left with Karroh, and he was now eyeing them suspiciously.

Zavahier glanced at Karroh, and then fixed Ffon with a steady gaze. “I don’t believe it’s any of your concern where and when I choose to train,” he said coldly.

“ _Do_ try not to get yourself hurt again, slave. I’d hate to be denied the chance to kill you myself,” Ffon replied.

Zavahier gave a snort of laughter. “Yes, you’re just so _incredibly_ scary, Ffon,” he said. “Maybe I _should_ get hurt, since that’s the only time you’d be brave enough to face me.”

He turned his back on Ffon, and then walked out of the barracks with Karroh. Once they were out of earshot, Karroh asked, “What was that about?”

“I’m trying to provoke him into attacking me, so I can kill him without punishment,” Zavahier explained.

“That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?” Karroh asked.

Zavahier responded with a little shrug. “Less risky than attacking him first. He’s already killed two acolytes, one of them on Harkun’s orders. So when I kill him, I want it to be something he’s brought on himself.”

Karroh gave a slow nod, accepting this explanation. “Failing that, you can ambush him out in the tombs.”

“Yes, that’s my backup plan,” Zavahier agreed.

They continued down the corridor, and then instead of taking the turn that would bring them to the main hall, they followed the longer – but quieter – corridor that circled around the hall. Karroh explained that although he’d been granted immunity from punishment for performing this deed, he nevertheless didn’t want to draw attention to himself, nor to Zavahier. They paused several times to check they weren’t being followed; Zavahier wasn’t completely sure that Ffon wouldn’t try to find out exactly what they were doing.

The corridor that led to Tremel’s office was a mirror image of the one leading to Harkun’s, and Karroh stopped just before they turned the corner that led to the office. “Alright, here we go. You wait here. I want to talk to him first, then you come in when the fight starts,” he said. “Be ready.”

Zavahier nodded, and moved to the very edge of the corner, pressing his back against the wall. He drew his training sabre, preparing himself for the battle. “Good luck,” he said quietly to Karroh.

“I don’t need luck,” Karroh replied, before taking a deep breath, and striding around the corner, heading into Tremel’s office.

Zavahier remained where he was, but focused all his senses on the office, listening to Karroh’s footsteps as he approached the Overseer. The footsteps ceased, and then he heard Tremel begin to speak.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Has Baras sent you back to me?” the Overseer asked.

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Karroh said, “I’m here to kill you.”

“Then I have been outplayed. Baras has the authority, but I did not think he would do something this overt,” Tremel replied. “Either I die or he forces me to kill you and to destroy my own plan. A master stroke.”

Zavahier heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and guessed that Tremel was moving to stand.

“Very well. You have your orders, acolyte. Know that it gives me no pleasure to kill you,” Tremel said.

“Let’s get this out of the way,” Karroh replied.

“I’ll try to make your end quick and painless. It’s the least I can do,” Tremel said, and there was definitely a hint of regret in his voice as he spoke. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of a lightsabre activating, and the hum of the weapon filled the room.

“That won’t happen,” Karroh said firmly. “I brought some help.”

That was Zavahier’s cue, and he stepped around the corner and went into the office. With his training sabre in his right hand and lightning crackling across his left, he still didn’t cut quite as imposing a picture as Karroh – who drew his warblade in one swift motion.

“Oh, you brought your little slave friend,” Tremel commented with a hint of amusement. “Well, I doubt Overseer Harkun will object if I kill him too. At least his plan will succeed.”

“I’m not a slave,” Zavahier said darkly.

Without any warning, Tremel raised his lightsabre and swung it at Karroh, who brought his own weapon around just in time to block the blow. Then Karroh danced back a few steps, and slashed at Tremel with his warblade, only to have the Overseer parry and push the warblade aside.

It was a duel the likes of which Zavahier had never seen; though Karroh was only an acolyte, his great proficiency with his warblade was evident in the way he fought Tremel. Both Sith fought with quick, practised sweeps of their weapons, continuously trying to break past each other’s guard and deliver a blow. Karroh was certainly stronger, but Tremel was quicker. They actually seemed evenly matched. Which was quite impressive when Zavahier considered just how much older Tremel was. Yet that was precisely why Karroh had asked Zavahier to assist him; that extra bit of firepower would be enough to turn the tide of the battle in his favour.

Getting a clear shot at Tremel was difficult; he and Karroh kept circling around each other, dodging and weaving and trying to strike at any exposed weak spot. Zavahier built up a powerful charge of lightning, but held back from releasing it. He had to get the timing of this exactly right, or he would hit Karroh.

Wait for it…

Not yet…

Not yet…

_Now!_

Zavahier sent the blast of lightning right at Tremel as he sidestepped one of Karroh’s swings with the warblade. The lightning crackled over Tremel’s armour, and he grunted in pain. It wasn’t enough to kill him, or even to incapacitate him. But it _was_ enough to slow him down for a moment, to distract him long enough for Karroh to grab his neck with the Force, lifting him off the floor and choking him.

Tremel dropped his lightsabre and clutched at his throat, struggling to breathe. Then he broke free of Karroh’s grasp, seemingly through strength of will alone, and threw him forcibly back against the wall. As Karroh hit the floor, and then rolled back to his feet, Tremel retrieved his lightsabre. He strode across the room towards Karroh, raising his weapon to strike before Karroh had the chance to block with his warblade.

Zavahier reacted swiftly, creating a protective bubble of lightning around Karroh just in time to deflect Tremel’s lightsabre. Static electricity crackled over Karroh, adding extra volume to his dark red dreadlocks.

Tremel raised his hand and used the Force to throw Zavahier back. His concentration broke when he tumbled to the floor, and the shield around Karroh collapsed. But it had served its purpose. By attacking Zavahier, Tremel had divided his attention for just a couple of seconds, and Karroh pressed this advantage, delivering several heavy, savage blows to Tremel’s body, and then stabbed his warblade into the place where Tremel’s pauldrons met his chestplate, twisting the weapon viciously to cause as much damage as possible.

Tremel yelled in pain, and dropped to his knees. He deactivated his lightsabre and held up his hand in surrender, while his other hand clutched the wound in his shoulder.

“No,” Tremel said. “I’m… amazed. I knew you were strong in the Force, but not… like this.”

Karroh kicked Tremel’s lightsabre out of his hand, and it clattered to the floor several metres away, out of Tremel’s reach, just in case he tried to attack again. But it seemed Tremel was beaten, and he looked up at Karroh, who towered over him.

“You’re more than ready to challenge Vemrin. Baras… won’t be able to deny that now,” Tremel continued between sharp, pained breaths. “He’ll have the satisfaction… of my death, but I die knowing my… success. Go ahead… end this.”

“You fought bravely, Overseer. Die with your head held high,” Karroh said, and though Zavahier could sense he felt a little regret about what he needed to do, his voice was nevertheless steady and confident.

Tremel nodded slowly. “Farewell, acolyte. The purity of the Sith… lies with you.”

Karroh’s face hardened, and he swung his warblade across Tremel’s throat and chest. The Overseer collapsed to the floor, his blood spurting from his neck and flowing readily from the other wounds he’d suffered. Karroh stared down at his former master, silently watching as the body twitched a few times, and then became motionless; then Karroh cut off Tremel’s hand – proof that he had completed his task – and then sheathed his warblade. Only then did he turn away. “It’s done,” he said with a tone of finality.

There wasn’t much Zavahier could say, so he responded with a single nod.

Karroh walked away from Tremel’s body, leaving it lying there in the middle of the floor, and Zavahier fell into step beside him. It was only a minute later, some distance away from the office, that Karroh spoke again. “I have a new master. Once Vemrin is out of the way, I’ll be Darth Baras’ apprentice,” he said firmly, sounding quite unlike his usual cheerful self. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Zavahier nodded again. He wasn’t sure that Karroh had really _needed_ his help. He had obviously been able to hold his own against Tremel even without any assistance. Yet it had perhaps been a quicker and easier victory with Zavahier’s support. “I’m glad I could help,” he said eventually.

“That… shield thing you did probably saved my life,” Karroh said seriously, and then he cracked a little bit of a smile. “And at least now I know why your hair always looks like that.”

“Like what?” Zavahier asked, feigning innocence in his voice.

“Like you got hit with your own lightning,” Karroh said. He reached out, pushing Zavahier’s hood back so that he could playfully ruffle his curly hair.

Zavahier ducked out of the way, and swatted Karroh’s hand. “Careful now,” he warned, but the threat wasn’t genuine. “I have plenty more lightning, and you wouldn’t want to look silly when you report to your new master. What’s Baras like, anyway?”

Karroh hesitated for a moment, and then grinned. “Well, he looks like he’s eaten a few too many cakes,” he said, before taking on a more serious tone. “No, he’s actually quite… intimidating. He’s very powerful, and he knows it. He doesn’t tolerate weakness, or failure. I think I’ll have my work cut out for me if I want to truly impress him.”

“You’d better hurry, then. Don’t keep him waiting,” Zavahier said.

“No argument there. And _you_ go and do some actual training to give yourself an alibi,” Karroh said.

That was probably a good idea, Zavahier realised. If he was seen elsewhere in the Academy – or even better, somewhere in the Valley of the Dark Lords – then even if the timing wasn’t completely perfect, it would be less obvious that he had been involved in Tremel’s death than it would be if he returned to the barracks now. He needed to give his armour some proper testing anyway, so when Karroh departed to report his success to Baras, Zavahier went in the opposite direction. He wanted to see if the tomb of Ajunta Pall had any more K’lor’slug infestations to deal with.


	24. The Jedi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zavahier has his first encounter with a Jedi.

It seemed that Darth Baras was satisfied with Karroh’s assassination of Tremel; he kept Karroh quite busy with various errands over the next three weeks, but Zavahier saw Karroh frequently enough to know that his friend was still alive. Baras was also either unaware of Zavahier’s involvement, or he simply deemed it irrelevant. In either case, Zavahier was careful not to say anything about the matter, a task that proved moderately challenging when news of Tremel’s death began to spread. Karroh was quick to claim credit for it, of course, since it helped to solidify his reputation, and none of the Academy’s instructors could punish him for killing Tremel after Baras had ordered him to do it.

But Ffon, at least, seemed to suspect Zavahier had been involved. He couldn’t prove it, which was clearly a source of great frustration. And it seemed he had gone running to Harkun to complain, because Harkun had summoned Zavahier to his office and gone through all the standard insults and threats, before assigning him to the rather dull task of cleaning the Academy’s collection of torture probes. The probes had the unfortunate tendency of trying to shock him during this process, which was undoubtedly what Harkun had intended. But Zavahier was already a step ahead of him, utilising his lightning shield to protect himself from the droids’ sparks.

When he returned to Harkun, completely unscathed, the Overseer ordered Zavahier to fetch his meal for him. Apparently he was going to resort to increasingly demeaning tasks until Zavahier… finally broke and admitted to his part in Overseer Tremel’s death, perhaps? By forcing Zavahier to perform chores appropriate to a slave, he perhaps hoped Zavahier’s pride would get the better of him.

Well, it wasn’t going to work. Zavahier wasn’t that stupid.

As he crossed the main hall, walking past the obelisk of fear, his mind was focused on one thing, and one thing only: the possibility of acquiring some poison and slipping it into the food Harkun had demanded he bring to him.

Perhaps he would just sneak out of the Academy for a short time. An hour would do it. He had discovered a few days previously that the tomb of Ajunta Pall _did_ indeed have another serious K’lor’slug infestation, and while he’d slaughtered his way through a great many of them to prove he had in fact been training at the time when Karroh had been killing Tremel, he was reasonably certain he hadn’t managed to kill them all. It had seemed only fair to leave a few for other acolytes to deal with, after all.

But he’d had enough of Harkun constantly belittling and insulting him. And he was fed up of these menial tasks as well. It was time for Harkun to die. Then Lord Zash would take over their training, just like Baras had taken over Karroh and Vemrin’s training now that Tremel was dead. And while Zavahier still didn’t know very much about her, he was fairly confident that she would be more tolerable than Harkun. Because an angry Rancor with diarrhoea would be better than Harkun, and Zash had to be better than _that_.

Yet murdering Harkun outright would be too obvious, not to mention quite challenging, so a more devious method was needed. And that was where the remaining K’lor’slugs would come in: he would attack them, kill them, and collect a large sample of their venomous spittle, which he would then add to the meal Harkun had ordered him to fetch.

Yes, this plan was much better than simply throwing lightning around and hoping it was enough to destroy Harkun. Lightning was incredibly useful – and enjoyable to inflict upon his enemies – but it couldn’t solve _every_ problem. And it would not be too difficult to pin the blame on one of the slaves that usually cooked and served the Overseer’s meals. Decision made, he turned around, now heading away from the Academy’s cantina and towards the entrance. He walked swiftly, with purpose and determination.

Only to be stopped by a middle aged Sith in blue robes; her eyes homed in on him, seeming to sense his anger and malevolent intent, and she moved to block his path. “I have need of you, young one,” she said in a clipped, sharp voice. “Whatever errand your master sent you on can wait until we are through.”

Zavahier stopped short, only barely restraining the desire to snarl at her to get out of his way. Then he realised that, either by intention or pure luck, she was stopping him from doing something very impulsive and reckless. It didn’t make him any less angry, but it _did_ stop him from just pushing past her and carrying on with his rushed plan to kill Harkun. So instead, he said, “I’m sick of errands anyway. Harkun can rot, for all I care.”

The woman narrowed her eyes slightly. “Then it’s time you had some direction. I am Inquisitor Urinth, and I represent the intelligence operations of the Sith. We are currently holding an important Jedi prisoner. A spy who attempted to reach this Academy. We have plans for him.”

Now that sounded intriguing. Enough so that Zavahier was now more than willing to abandon his plans to murder Harkun. He’d both heard and read a lot about the Jedi, enough to know that they were enemies, a threat to everything the Empire held dear. One day, he would be killing every Jedi he encountered in the name of the Emperor, and so there was value in learning more about them. There was _always_ power in knowing his enemies.

Harkun could be killed any day. But Zavahier might not have another opportunity to investigate this Jedi prisoner. “You have my attention.”

“Upon capture, we found the Jedi’s mind simple to manipulate. We fed him false memories through a combination of drugs and sorcery. Soon he will return to his Jedi commanders and report the lies we fed him. He will know nothing of what we’ve done. All that remains is to stage his escape,” Urinth explained.

“And once he’s free, what will he tell the Jedi? What did you plant on him?” Zavahier asked, unable to resist his own curiosity. The simple fact that a man’s memories could be altered through Sith sorcery was a subject of great interest to him… especially if it was powerful enough to work on a Jedi, even a weak-willed one.

“Information that should encourage certain Outer Rim colonies to reduce their defences. Once that happens, we can arrange the destruction of those colonies and their Jedi defenders,” Urinth answered.

“I’ll help,” Zavahier said quickly. This was going to be _much_ more interesting than any of the stupid tasks Harkun had been wasting his time with.

Urinth gave him a thin smile. “Good. I’m pleased that you appreciate our project. And you’re perfect for what I have in mind. You’re young enough, new enough, to be a plausible traitor. You will go to the Jedi. Talk to him. Do as he asks. Earn his trust. When that is done, set him free. Do whatever is necessary to get him out of prison, and we will ensure that he reaches his ship and returns safely to his Jedi friends.”

The word ‘traitor’ caught Zavahier’s attention, and it sent a pulse of fear through him. He remembered how hard it had been to prove his loyalty, and he remembered how unpleasant life had been when Samus and Rance had been punishing him for his earlier actions. He didn’t want to go through that again. “I won’t get in trouble?” he asked, realising that since acolytes were generally considered to be expendable, he might well end up being tortured or killed for his part in this despite the fact that it was all part of a plan. The other Sith in the Academy may not be aware of the reason for the Jedi’s escape. “How do I know you won’t accuse me of treason?”

“Prove your strength – prove that you are truly Sith – and all the accusations in the world will mean nothing,” Urinth told him fiercely.

Zavahier supposed there was some sense to that. He had already proven his loyalty once, and if he had to, he would do so again. He knew himself to be strong and worthy of being Sith. As long as Urinth herself didn’t declare him to be a traitor, then accusations from others could be dismissed, just as Ffon’s suspicions that he’d helped Karroh kill Tremel hadn’t led to any actual punishment beyond Harkun’s attempts to humiliate him with menial errands. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Good. You will find the Jedi Quorian Dorjis in the jail cells. He is still confused and should not be overly difficult to convince.”

Zavahier made his way through the Academy to the jails, the place where he had tortured Alif for information almost a month previously. Nothing had really changed, except now all of the cells were empty, apart from one, which contained a man perhaps five years older than Zavahier. He was kneeling on the floor, and while Zavahier could certainly sense that he was confused, there was also… something else.

A kind of peace and calmness.

After becoming so accustomed to being surrounded by constant fear and anger of his fellow Sith, the utter calm emanating from the Jedi was just...

Eerie.

It felt inherently unnatural, like the man’s true nature – his emotions and the underlying conflict that was part of being alive – was being forcibly restrained. It sent such a powerful feeling of _wrongness_ through Zavahier that he found himself wanting to provoke the man into revealing his passions. The feel of the Jedi’s connection to the Force was uncomfortable too. Was that what the light side of the Force felt like?

“There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. The Jedi Code will guide me…” the Jedi said quietly as he meditated, speaking with a drawling Republic accent.

Zavahier instinct was to feel nothing but revulsion for this Jedi. Everything about him was just _wrong_. Yet he needed to convince the man that he could be trusted, that he wanted to help. So Zavahier hid his disgust beneath a layer of confidence and self-assurance… and just a hint of uncertainty. He was Sith. The Jedi would expect to sense intense emotion within him. So all he needed to do was focus on the right emotions for this situation: the confidence of someone certain of his power, but with doubts about other things in his life.

Then Zavahier took a quick look around the jails. Nobody else was present, except for a hovering probe droid. He deactivated it with a spark of lightning; he didn’t want any witnesses to what he was about to say. It would reduce the chances of anybody accusing him of treason if there was no actual evidence. The sound of the droid beeping in protest and then crumpling to the floor alerted the Jedi to Zavahier’s presence. He opened his eyes and looked up at him.

“I take it you’re the Jedi who was captured?” Zavahier asked.

The Jedi climbed to his feet to look at Zavahier on an even level. “I am Quorian Dorjis. I am a Jedi – even here. Even on Korriban,” he said softly.

Zavahier was struck by the idea that as much as he found the Jedi’s faint aura of the light side of the Force uncomfortable, Quorian probably felt the same way about the powerful dark side energy that filled Korriban. It had to take a certain kind of bravery for the man to come here, knowing that the whole planet was attuned to the dark side, the very opposite of his own powers.

Would Zavahier have been willing to sneak into a Jedi temple, surrounded on all sides by the light side of the Force?

Yes, actually. Just because something was unpleasant didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it. Infiltrating and destroying a Jedi temple would be a wonderful challenge.

Was the Jedi able to sense Zavahier’s own dark side aura? Or was it not yet strong enough to register over the much greater power of Korriban itself?

So many questions. Under other circumstances, Zavahier might have asked.

Or maybe the Jedi was just so confused by what had been done to his mind that he didn’t really see Zavahier at all. There was definitely something a little… vague and uncertain about the way Quorian looked at him, as if not fully understanding what was going on. As Urinth had said, gaining his trust probably wouldn’t be very difficult.

“Why do you care?” Quorian asked him. “Why are you here?”

Zavahier hesitated for a moment. On purpose, this time. “The way you’ve been tortured is wrong. No one should have to suffer like that,” he answered, drawing on his own memories of being tortured. He knew how it felt to be made to suffer. He knew pain and fear. He knew all about not being in control of his own fate. He remembered how angry it had always made him. These were the things he wanted the Jedi to sense.

“You mean that. A Sith with a conscience,” Quorian said quietly, sounding a little like he’d just witnessed something he’d previously believed not to exist.

“We’re not all the same,” Zavahier said irritably. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“You’re here to help me,” the Jedi said, and then shook his head, as if struggling to clear his thoughts. He raised a hand to rub his forehead. “Why am I talking in circles? What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve been tortured, remember? It messes with your head,” Zavahier said. “Will you try and pay attention?”

“You’re right. I apologise,” Quorian replied. He closed his eyes again, and put his hands together, interlacing his fingers, taking a few moments to meditate again. That sense of peace intensified, radiating out from the Jedi. “There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. The Jedi Code will guide me.”

Zavahier took a step back; the light side energy in the Jedi made his skin itch. And he rather thought the Jedi Code sounded like utter nonsense. It was a complete denial of everything that made life what it was. Of everything that made a person who they were.

Peace was a lie.

Zavahier had accepted that some time ago as he’d learned to understand the Sith Code. But only now that he’d met this Jedi, who was forcing all his emotions away, and trying to fill this entire room with his unnatural calmness, did Zavahier _truly_ understand just how enormous a lie peace really was. The peace and serenity the Jedi was trying to impose on his own mind was so utterly unnatural that just _sensing_ it unsettled Zavahier.

Yet it seemed to do something for Quorian. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again. “I can focus,” he said at last, and he did indeed sound a little more clear-headed. “If you want to help me escape, I’ll need my belongings: my lightsabre, my datapad, my comlink. Before I was captured, the Sith chased me into the tomb of Tulak Hord. I hid my belongings inside an urn to lighten my load. That is where you’ll need to go.”

“Your… lightsabre… was too heavy?” Zavahier asked slowly, not quite sure he’d heard that correctly, because it sounded utterly insane. While there was some sense in abandoning heavy items in order to run more swiftly, a lightsabre wasn’t really the kind of thing to leave behind while trying to lighten a load. Leaving behind a weapon seemed incredibly foolish.

But then, the Jedi’s mind _had_ been subjected to drugs and sorcery.

_After_ he had been captured, though. He would have hidden his lightsabre before that. So it still didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But if the Jedi Code were any indication, all Jedi were probably mad. That would lead them to do crazy things like put their lightsabres in urns. When Zavahier eventually got his own lightsabre, he wasn’t ever going to leave it anywhere silly.

Or it was possible that Quorian wasn’t remembering events clearly. Ultimately, it probably didn’t matter. Zavahier was going to believe the Jedi was insane anyway… and he was still going to help him, because that was the reason he was here. “I’ll find your belongings,” he promised.

“Thank you,” Quorian replied, before returning to his meditation.

Zavahier turned away from the Jedi and left the jails. Once he was well out of range, he took a few moments to focus himself, drawing on the familiar emotions that gave him power, and wrapping himself in dark energy. The light side of the Force was _creepy_ , and he felt quite unsettled after just that brief contact. Of course, his sense of unease was an emotion he could draw power from too. Next time he met a Jedi, he would be prepared for that bizarre lack of emotion, but being disturbed by it would keep him on edge. It would help him kill every Jedi he came across.

It was odd, really, because Zavahier had learned a lot about the history between the Sith and the Jedi, and he’d been inclined to think a lot of the propaganda was just that. A manipulation to make the Sith hate the Jedi, to make them willing to fight and kill. But now, having actually _met_ a Jedi… Well, Zavahier couldn’t say that he _hated_ Quorian, but he certainly understood much better exactly _why_ the Jedi needed to be exterminated. That strange peacefulness was completely unnatural, in complete defiance of the natural order of things, and the galaxy would clearly be better without such abominations in it.

And there was one more thing, too. Something that Zavahier only thought of several minutes later, halfway down the corridor on the way back to the barracks: Quorian had been _surprised_ that a Sith could have a conscience.

That said some rather disturbing things about the Jedi, didn’t it?

They were taught that all Sith were evil.

Well…

If Zavahier considered Harkun and Ffon – and all the other Sith he’d met – there did seem to be a recurring theme. They were generally either vicious, horrible people… or they were weak and unworthy of life. Even Karroh, a man he trusted, was ruthless and willing to kill when it suited him.

But Zavahier wasn’t evil, and nor was he weak. He was quite sure of that. He used his passions, like any _normal_ living being did. He felt emotions, like any human ought to. And he fought to survive, another natural impulse. He had ambitions, but there was nothing evil about that either. There was nothing _wrong_ with wanting control over his own existence. There was nothing _evil_ about the pursuit of knowledge, nor in challenging himself to improve. To be an individual, to value himself for everything that made him unique, there was nothing wrong with that either.

Zavahier wasn’t evil.

He would know if he was.

And didn’t that suggest that… maybe it was the Jedi who were the evil ones?


	25. The Tomb Of Tulak Hord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tomb of Tulak Hord presents a fresh set of challenges for Zavahier to overcome.

Zavahier had never actually been to the tomb of Tulak Hord. But working on the assumption that it would be just like every other tomb on Korriban – incredibly dangerous and simply swarming with monsters, failed acolytes and a broad selection of crazy people – he was going to be prepared. He was _not_ going to get himself injured by any of those aforementioned dangers. After leaving the jails, he went to the medical bay to claim some medpacs, and then he gathered some ration packs from the Academy’s stores, as well as a handheld torch, a small box of powerful glow-tubes, and a pocket knife. All of these were packed into a bag – a new one that didn’t smell of Tuk’ata brain – and only then did he return to the barracks to put on his armoured robes and collect his training sabre.

And then he set out on his latest adventure. He’d been _past_ the tomb of Tulak Hord plenty of times, walking by its entrance during other excursions into the Valley of the Dark Lords, but he had never had reason to go inside, and…

Well, if he was completely honest with himself, something about that particular tomb bothered him, even when he just happened to walk by it. The proximity alone made him feel uneasy, and the fact that there seemed to be no obvious reason for it made him especially wary.

He enjoyed exploring tombs in general, despite – or perhaps _because_ of – the mortal peril. He had explored several smaller tombs just out of curiosity. And there was that constant hope of finding another powerful artefact, one that he wouldn’t have to give to somebody else or have taken away from him. But more than that, he simply liked the feeling of being connected to the ancient past. Of feeling the lingering power of the long-dead Sith interred within the tombs. Of smelling the stale, dusty air. Of touching the stone carvings. It all felt so much more _real_ than reading old books, scrolls, holocrons and files in his datapad. Not that he didn’t enjoy that too.

But the tomb of Tulak Hord was different.

Not for nothing had Tulak Hord once been known as the ‘Lord of Hate’. Even his tomb pulsated with a kind of seething hatred of everyone and everything that dared intrude. Zavahier could feel that as easily as he could sense his own deepest passions.

It was actually a little intimidating, to feel that intense hatred.

Even though he knew it couldn’t _possibly_ be directed specifically at him.

Could it?

Why would he even think that?

Nevertheless, it had been enough to make him stay out of that one particular tomb, but now he had no choice. The Jedi’s belongings were hidden in there somewhere, and so he had to go inside.

The tomb itself was situated in the southern side of the Valley of the Dark Lords, with a huge statue – most likely of Tulak Hord himself – standing tall and proud over the entrance. Zavahier paused when he reached it, and looked up at the statue for a long, drawn out minute. He could feel the hatred radiating from the tomb. It pressed down on him, making him want to shrink beneath the weight of it. He wanted to cower down to the ground, to run, to hide, to get away from that seething _hatred_.

“You scared or something?” another acolyte asked, pausing on her way out of the tomb to regard Zavahier.

“Of course not. But can’t you feel that?” Zavahier said.

“Feel what?” the acolyte asked. “It’s just an old tomb.”

Zavahier shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, moving to go around the acolyte and into the tomb. The aura of hatred pressed down on him like a durasteel block. It was similar to the doubt and fear he’d felt in the tomb of Marka Ragnos, but somehow much more intense. He couldn’t block it out of his mind, and nor could he accept it into himself. It wasn’t his own emotion he was feeling, intensified by the tomb, but rather something foreign that pushed against his mind.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

In the first chamber of the tomb, there was a distraction: a large group of slaves working to restore damaged statues and partially crumbled walls, under the supervision of a handful of sentries. As Zavahier walked through the chamber, the sentries saluted to acknowledge his authority over them. The slaves avoided meeting his gaze, fearful of attracting his wrath. Zavahier passed within a metre of a decorative obelisk, and the slave working on it flinched away from him, cowering in fear of what he might do.

His instinctive reaction was one of faint disgust. His nose wrinkled and his lip curled, and his whole body tensed, disliking everything he could see of the slave quivering before him. Even when he’d been a slave himself, he’d never been this pitiful. He’d never cowered before anyone, not even a Sith, not even when he’d thought he was going to die.

So he sent a spark of lightning at the slave, the equivalent of a shock through the man’s collar. Not enough to kill him, nor to cause him any permanent injury. Just to cause pain, just to express how revolted he was by what he could see. The slave cried out in pain, his whole body convulsing as the lightning wrapped him for several seconds, and all other slaves shrunk back, trying to widen the distance between them and Zavahier. But he had no interest in tormenting them further. He’d made his point. The nearest sentry looked at him for a moment, but didn’t react in any other way. Slaves were property, and who was going to tell a Sith what he could or couldn’t do to a slave?

A few minutes later, when Zavahier had left the chamber and gone deeper into the tomb, he felt that sense of disgust again… but directed towards himself. And with the pulsating hatred of the tomb creeping into him, it was easy to hate himself, too.

Was this what he was becoming?

He had tortured and killed others with increasing readiness – and even enjoyment – in the last two months. It got easier every time, and he spent less time dwelling on the morality of it all. There just wasn’t room in his life for that kind of weakness, and if he thought about it too much, then he’d start questioning himself.

Like he was right now.

But this was different. That slave hadn’t been an enemy or a rival. He hadn’t been in Zavahier’s way, nor had hurting him been necessary to prove his strength. Killing him hadn’t been a challenge. The slave’s only crime, really, was reminding Zavahier of where he’d come from and what he’d once been. And after he’d started truly feeling like a Sith – getting his first set of armour, engaging in that all important practice in manipulating his rivals, and finding new ways of antagonising Harkun and Ffon – suddenly being confronted with a set of cowering slaves had been an unpleasant experience.

So he’d lashed out at the slave just for reminding him of where he himself had been not too long ago.

Well, never again.

There were a lot of things he found himself willing to do these days, things he would never have believed himself capable of, but he still had _some_ principles. Torturing slaves was beneath him. It brought him neither power nor pleasure. He wasn’t going to do it.

The galaxy was full of people who deserved being tortured or killed far more than slaves did. Slaves were weak. They were harmless. There was nothing to be gained by hurting them. Not when he could so easily find more worthy targets for his power and rage and hate. Harkun. Ffon. Other acolytes. Other Sith. The Jedi. The Republic. Their fear would mean so much more than that of half a dozen cowering slaves.

As much as that feeling of disgust with himself was unpleasant, Zavahier accepted it into himself, both because _any_ emotion could be a source of power, and because he had learned from the experience. He now knew where one of his limits lay, where there was a line that he didn’t want to cross. Knowing that about himself was important.

Zavahier proceeded deeper into the tomb, now focusing his attention on the reason he’d been sent down here in the first place: to retrieve the Jedi’s belongings. He didn’t know exactly which urn in which the Jedi had hidden his things, so Zavahier stopped to look in _all_ of them. There were rather a lot of them, it seemed… This was going to take some time.

But the first few corridors and chambers he explored offered nothing but empty urns and broken statues. Even all of the monsters had been cleared out of the tomb, likely to make things safer for the slaves. They couldn’t work if they were dead. Zavahier passed several other groups of slaves, each supervised by sentries, and made a point of giving them a wide berth.

The whole tomb was a maze-like complex of corridors and rooms. He didn’t expect to find what he was looking for so close to the entrance; if the Jedi had wanted to properly hide his belongings, he wouldn’t have left them somewhere so easily accessible by every Sith acolyte that passed by. So Zavahier pressed on, following the corridor and trusting his instincts.

The passageway split into two, one path going left and the other right. Zavahier paused and looked back and forth, considering his options. There was a dull orange light at the end of the corridor to the right, sunlight streaming in from the outside, suggesting another entrance to the tomb. To the left, there was a palpable aura of dark side energy and a distinct feeling of danger.

So Zavahier turned left, following that radiating hatred into the darkness. The feeling of danger intensified as he moved forward, so he slowed down, moving more slowly and half expecting an ambush… or something worse.

And then he felt it. He felt it before he saw it, and before he heard it. A surge of fear that warned of imminent danger. He launched himself forward and down, ducking beneath the swinging blade that sliced through the air at what would have been neck height if he had been there to meet it.

Only once he’d scrambled out of range of the blade, and turned to study the area around him, did he spot the bodies. Most of them were little more than skeletal remains – a skull here, a ribcage there, and a few longer bones that might be arms or legs over there – but one body, which had been decapitated, was much more recent, perhaps a few days old. Probably another acolyte, one that hadn’t been as quick and light on his feet as Zavahier. The sickly, decaying stench of it filled the air.

Well, that was rather reassuring, wasn’t it?

The lack of hordes of monsters had been suspicious, but the presence of deadly traps explained a lot. He should probably expect more of them to come, but at least he knew he was probably going in the right direction. So Zavahier kept going down the corridor, moving through the darkness with caution; he took it one step at a time, testing the floor before putting his full weight onto it, and staying alert for the slightest sound or movement in the air.

Zavahier carefully sidestepped around what he thought was a pressure pad, and took note of the scorch marks on the walls. And then, a little further down the corridor, a number of spikes shot up out of the floor as he approached; he leaped back just in time, snarling a curse. This entire infernal place was a death-trap!

As he backed away from the spikes, they retreated back into the floor. Then he took one step towards them, and then another. And then… on the third step, they shot upwards again. He moved back and forth a few times, testing the sensitivity of the trap and the speed of the spikes.

It was very sensitive, and the spikes were very fast.

So how was he going to get past them?

Very quickly, obviously.

Zavahier drew on the Force, channelling fear and hate and anger into pure power, which he used to spring forward, propelling himself past the spikes. They stabbed upwards, nipping at his heels, but they seemed to do so in slow motion. Dodging them was easy.

This burst of speed, aided by the Force, carried him past the trap and right towards the wall opposite, where the corridor turned sharply to the left. Zavahier twisted sideways, trying to slow down, but succeeded only in slamming his shoulder against the wall, halting his Force assisted sprint down the corridor with an audible _thump_. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling a bit of an ache, but his armour had protected him from any real damage. Not _quite_ what he’d had in mind when he’d  bought it, but it was good to know the armour would protect him from his own powers too.

Clearly he would need to practice that skill a bit more, especially in enclosed spaces like this. Like so many of his other Force abilities, raw power wasn’t the issue. Staying in control, on the other hand, was more of a challenge. Using the Force to sprint forward had got him past the trap, but he hadn’t felt like he was actually in control of this burst of speed.

But since when had restraint been a Sith trait?

Better to have too much power than not enough, and being a little out of control seemed to come with the territory. Besides, it was kind of fun.

He felt a little drained, though. Force speed was hard on the body. Especially one as weak as his. So when he started moving again, it was at a slower pace. He stayed alert for more traps, too, but the sense of impending doom was fading, so he thought the worst danger had passed.

And then, finally, the corridor opened out into a much larger chamber. In the centre was a low, broad dais, with a massive stone tablet stood on it, looming ominously over the entire room. It towered over Zavahier, and was covered in large glyphs carved into the stone itself. Part of the text was distorted by a large crack that ran down the tablet’s surface, but it was otherwise intact and in surprisingly good condition given its age. He stared at it for a while, studying the writing with both his eyes and with the Force, hoping to gain some measure of understanding through strength of will alone.

But he couldn’t quite manage it. There was a feeling of _almost_ being able to read it, like a half-forgotten word on the tip of his tongue. He could reach for it, but he couldn’t grasp it. The words on this tablet were beyond him.

It was fascinating.

But not what he was looking for.

There were two urns standing in the corners of the room, but when Zavahier looked inside them, they were empty.

Zavahier extricated himself from the trapped corridor with a little more ease than he’d managed to get into it. He knew where all the traps were now, making them easier to evade, though he still had to rely on the Force to give him the necessary speed to get past the floor spikes and the swinging blade. Once he was clear of the traps – not to mention that sense of danger – he felt himself a little at a loss. He had explored every room and corridor in the tomb, searched inside every urn, and not located the Jedi’s belongings.

Had he missed something?

Clearly, he must have.

But where?

What about that other corridor, the one he had assumed to be a secondary entrance to the tomb?

Perhaps the correct urn was in that direction, or there were some side chambers that he’d missed.

Lacking any other options, and unwilling to concede defeat just yet, Zavahier went down the corridor with sunlight at the end. What he had thought to be a second entrance to the tomb, that would lead him back into the Valley of the Dark Lords, soon proved to be something else entirely, as the corridor turned to head deeper into the cliff, entirely the wrong direction to take him back into the Valley.

There were no traps, nor were there any monsters. That seemed a little suspicious; any place that _seemed_ safe probably wasn’t. Zavahier had spent enough time on Korriban to have learned that. But there was also no sense of imminent danger. There was just a long, empty corridor that became lighter the further he went.

And then he was outside once again; beyond the passageway was a large atrium, a circular hollow several hundred metres across, surrounded on all sides by high red cliffs. There were some old, crumbling walls, and several entrances to further parts of the tomb. And in the very centre of the atrium was a large, odd-looking structure; three tall pillars curved in towards each other, meeting in the middle to form a large platform on which stood a vast statue of Tulak Hord. Beneath it was a small altar covered in bones. It drew Zavahier’s attention as being the most distinctive feature of the atrium, and was thus worthy of a closer look. He began making his way towards it, scrambling down a pile of rocks that had once been a retaining wall.

As he reached the bottom, there was a cry of challenge – “Die, Sith scum!” – and three men opened fire on him with blasters. He leaped the rest of the way down the pile of rocks, sensing most of the bolts missing him entirely, and feeling one strike harmlessly against his armour.

Zavahier drew his training sabre, and began building a charge of Force lightning, holding it in his hand as his eyes focused on his target. He realised with a start that his attackers were slaves; they wore scruffy, ragged green-brown tunics, and still had their shock collars around their necks. Yet they had somehow escaped their masters, and gotten their hands on some weapons as well.

So he hesitated to attack them. He didn’t _want_ to kill slaves. Not even ones that seemed to be in open rebellion and trying to kill him. After all, hadn’t he done the same himself not too long ago?

Although compared to these three slaves, and perhaps others in the atrium, Zavahier’s rebellion against Rawste now seemed quite pathetically unambitious. But Rawste had always been very careful about keeping weapons out of reach; his fear of his slaves rising up against him had made him both paranoid and cautious, and in the end, Zavahier hadn’t _needed_ a blaster to be able to kill his father. Clearly the sentries guarding these slaves hadn’t been appropriately wary of their charges.

Zavahier was inclined to leave them to it. If some slaves had armed themselves and were making a bid for freedom, did he really want to destroy them?

No.

The slaves seemed to realise that he was hesitant to attack them, and stopped firing at him, with looks of confusion on their faces. One of them, a Twi’lek, glanced at the other two, before asking, “Why aren’t you attacking us, Sith?”

“My reasons are my own,” Zavahier replied. He had absolutely no intention of informing them that he had once been very much like them. And he didn’t feel any particular need to explain his motives.

“Not strong enough to take on all three of us?” the Twi’lek asked.

Zavahier gave him a contemptuous look. “I could kill all three of you in my sleep. I just have better things to do with my time,” he said, turning away from the three renegade slaves and focusing once again on the pillars and altar in the centre of the atrium. But then he paused in his steps when a thought occurred to him, and he looked back at the slaves. “A Jedi came through here a few days ago. He’s my focus. Did you see anything?”

“Quorian was helping us. Why should we tell you anything that’ll help you kill him?” the Twi’lek said, looking rather suspicious.

Zavahier hesitated for a brief moment, and then struck the Twi’lek with a small jolt of lightning. “Because I’m here _now_ , and I want to know,” he said darkly. He didn’t like hurting slaves. He’d figured that out already today. But this seemed like one of those occasions when it was justified; he wasn’t torturing the man for pleasure, or in response to his own discomfort, but purely with the goal of acquiring information.

It still made him feel uncomfortable.

“Alright! Don’t hurt me!” the Twi’lek pleaded. “Quorian was captured by those other Sith two days ago.”

“Yes, I know that,” Zavahier said irritably, shocking the escaped slave again. “What did he do while he was here? Where did he go?”

The Twi’lek cried out in pain, recoiling from the spark of lightning. “Please… don’t do that again,” he whimpered. “Like I told you, Quorian was helping us. With the rebellion. He helped us take out the sentries and get weapons, in return for information about the Academy.”

“He hid some things here. Did you see where?” Zavahier asked. He held back on shocking the Twi’lek slave again, since the man was now answering his questions without being pushed into doing so.

“Over there, in that urn,” the slave replied, gesturing across the atrium to a small flight of steps leading into another part of the tomb. At the top of the steps was a large stone urn, so similar to others Zavahier had seen around the tombs of Korriban that he would likely have passed it by if he hadn’t known it contained anything. “Now please let us go.”

Zavahier made a bit of a show of considering that request. Of course he didn’t intend to murder these slaves in cold blood. But he didn’t want them to know that. “Alright. You can live. If I find you have lied to me, however…” he said, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

“I haven’t, I promise!” the Twi’lek said. Then he and his companions turned and fled.

Feeling a little amused at their fear, and pleased with his success at getting the information he wanted out of them, Zavahier let the slaves go, instead beginning to make his way across the atrium, heading towards the urn the Twi’lek had directed him to. It was almost as tall as he was, and he had to stand on tiptoes just to peer over the rim to see if the Jedi’s belongings were inside. At first he couldn’t see anything, but then he caught sight of a tiny blinking light. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, nor could he easily reach it with his hand, so he concentrated for a moment, lifting the object out of the urn with the Force. It was a small holocomm, which he pocketed.

Zavahier checked the inside of the urn again, but the Jedi’s lightsabre and datapad were both definitely _not_ in there. The most obvious assumption was that they must have been taken by someone else. Perhaps some of the renegade slaves, either due to wanting them for themselves, or maybe simply to deny them to the Sith. The comlink had probably been missed due to its small size.

Of _course_ it had been far too simple to have gotten the answer so easily out of that Twi’lek slave. Annoyed at having been deceived in such a way, Zavahier  resisted the temptation to blast the urn with a powerful surge of Force energy. He was angry, but that was no reason to destroy something ancient and irreplaceable. He’d have to take out his frustration on that Twi’lek slave, if he could find him again. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t even _surprised_ that he needed to search for the lightsabre and datapad.

He gazed out over the atrium, trying to decide where to search first.

No, he was trying to decide which of the rebelling slaves to kill first.

Zavahier couldn’t see them all, but he could sense them; little pinpricks of fear, anger and pride. They were so proud of their accomplishments, which he had to admit they ought to be. Their rebellion was far more impressive than his own had been. And they were angry at the Empire for enslaving them. Afraid of retribution.

He only needed to kill the ones that had the items he was looking for. And the Twi’lek that had lied to him, of course. There was no need to hurt the others, nor to interfere with their little rebellion; let those with a more vested interest in putting slaves in their place quell the rebellion. If the slaves deserved freedom, then they would be strong enough to take it. If the soldiers and other Sith deserved to be in authority over the slaves, they would be strong enough to crush the rebellion. Zavahier would have no part in it.

His eye was drawn, once again, to the altar in the centre of the atrium. From this angle, he could see a number of renegade slaves gathered beneath the pillars, as well as what looked suspiciously like several Imperial soldiers who were quite obviously _not_ attacking the slaves. One man stood on the altar itself, speaking animatedly to the people gathered around him.

If any of the rebelling slaves would have the Jedi’s lightsabre, it would have to be the ringleader, wouldn’t it?

But more than that, it looked like a rather organised and determined group, and it was not just slaves involved. There were soldiers there, wearing Imperial armour and standing amongst the group of slaves, and a few droids that had likely been reprogrammed. Together, they made a clear threat to the Empire in a way that a handful of rebelling slaves alone did not. Even if they _didn’t_ have the Jedi’s lightsabre and datapad, Zavahier was probably still obligated to kill them all to end whatever potential threat they presented.

There was, unfortunately, rather a lot of them. More than Zavahier had ever faced alone.

He needed that lightsabre.

Perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to wait, to be patient, and to think of a proper plan. If Karroh had been here, it would have been less of an issue, because this was the kind of situation where two Sith were better than one. Karroh would have charged in amongst them without a second thought.

But Zavahier wasn’t quite that confident in his martial prowess. He moved closer, taking himself to within striking distance, approaching the group from the side. They were all so focused on what their leader had to say that they didn’t even seem to notice him.

He would remedy that soon enough. He began building a powerful charge of lightning, letting it wreathe around his hand and forearm, before transferring it to his other hand. He built it up further, until the crackling purple electricity filled both his hands, bouncing between them. He held it for as long as he could, pushing all his strength into it, before unleashing it on the group gathered around the altar.

The _crack_ of thunder that accompanied Zavahier’s lightning shook the whole atrium, and pebbles and dust tumbled down the cliffs. The droids with the group around the altar crumpled to the ground with sparks issuing from their  bodies. Even with all the power Zavahier had poured into the burst of lightning, it was spread too thinly across the crowd to kill any of the escaped slaves and traitorous soldiers. But that didn’t matter. It had caught their attention and sown fear amongst them.

And it told Zavahier who had the lightsabre; the ringleader pulled it from his belt and activated it, the hum of the blue blade immediately recognisable.

Zavahier drew his training sabre, and raised a protective shield around himself. And then he launched himself forward, using the Force to close the gap between him and the leader, shoving several renegade slaves to the side in the process. The man, a dark-skinned Zabrak, swung the lightsabre at him, but it only grazed the edge of Zavahier’s shield, sending out small sparks of lightning in every direction. Zavahier retaliated with his training sabre, aiming for the Zabrak’s forearm.

The leader dodged to one side and swung again with the lightsabre. It was a clumsy attack, though; the man seemed to be having trouble controlling the weapon, unable to predict or compensate for the inherent differences between a lightsabre and a conventional weapon. All the weight was in the hilt, not the blade, and the Zabrak couldn’t quite figure out how to deal with that.

Zavahier didn’t give him the chance to swing the lightsabre again. He darted forward and struck the rebel leader with a jolt of lightning, enough to stun him for a moment. The Zabrak dropped the lightsabre, and Zavahier took the opportunity to drop his own weapon… freeing up his hand to make a grab for the lightsabre instead.

It was the first time he’d ever wielded a lightsabre, and even though his training sabre had provided him with some experience with the weight and balance of using one, it had _not_ prepared him for the things a training blade _couldn’t_ simulate. As he raised the lightsabre, there was a feeling of momentum, and when he tried to shift the direction of his swing, the blade resisted it, wanting to continue along the path of the swing.

Zavahier had to focus all his attention on the lightsabre, relying on the Force to help him predict how it would move. But it almost felt like the weapon itself resisted him. He wasn’t its rightful owner, and the crystals that powered it weren’t attuned to his connection to the Force. They were connected to Quorian, who utilised the light side. This lightsabre wasn’t suited to a Sith, and Zavahier felt as though he was in a battle of wills against the weapon itself, as he tried to assert himself over the light side crystals within it.

But even so, there was something about having a lightsabre in his hand that filled Zavahier with confidence. With this he could do some real damage to this little rebellion he’d discovered.

And they knew it. In the first few moments of the battle, they’d been ready to outnumber and overwhelm a single Sith acolyte. Now they saw him take the lightsabre, and without the knowledge that he barely knew how to use such a weapon, they looked uncertain. A Sith with a lightsabre in hand was an intimidating sight. The leader reached for his blaster, and the Imperial soldiers raised their rifles. But some of the slaves began backing away.

Zavahier swung the lightsabre with all the strength he could muster, forcing the weapon to do as _he_ willed, and he cut the ringleader from shoulder to hip, severing his body in two. Then he moved on to the closest rebels, slashing wildly and recklessly with the borrowed lightsabre. Some of them turned and fled. Others opened fire with pistols and rifles. Some of those bolts were absorbed by his protective shield, and some struck his armour. He even managed to deflect a few with the lightsabre.

It was the bolts from the heavier rifles that actually posed a threat to him. So he dodged and weaved, relying on pure speed and agility to keep himself safe from harm. That was hard to do with the lightsabre often wanting to follow its own momentum in one direction, while he wanted to dodge in a different one. He felt several heavy, powerful blaster bolts hit him. His armoured robes took the worst of it.

Zavahier started unleashing quick, short bursts of lightning. He couldn’t sustain any longer, more powerful surges when so much of his concentration was focused on the lightsabre. But they were enough to injure and slow his opponents. They were enough to kill those who had already been weakened. He kept pressing his attacks, focusing only on the slaves and soldiers who had stayed to fight, plunging into his darkest emotions and lust for battle. He cut them down or shocked them with lightning, not even hearing the pleas for mercy. Their mouths moved, but Zavahier didn’t hear the words. It didn’t matter what they said.

The only thing that mattered was this chaotic, rebellious mob were powerless in the face of his ferocity. They outnumbered him, but he was too quick, too aggressive. Too powerful. His own emotions – even that silent, internal judgement of himself – were a storm of pure power that he used to overwhelm his opponents.

He stopped only when he could find nobody else to kill.

And then, panting with exertion, he finally deactivated Quorian’s lightsabre and looked around at the carnage he’d wrought. He was surrounded by bodies, many in two or more pieces, and still others smoking from his lightning or the cauterised burns inflicted by the lightsabre.

Well, wasn’t _that_ a satisfying sight?

Had he really done all of that?

By himself?

Should he be bothered by it?

Should he care?

Yes, but only insofar as caring about his actions gave him powerful emotions.

Mostly, he just felt rather pleased with himself.

And a little bruised and burned. He hadn’t come out of the battle entirely unscathed. But his injuries were minor. He hadn’t even felt them. Not until a few minutes later, when the storm of passion subsided, leaving dull aches in his muscles, and a few burns where his armour hadn’t _completely_ absorbed all the heat from the blaster bolts.

He was still in much better condition than his enemies, though.

Zavahier quickly executed the few survivors of his brief but intense attack on the rebels. There had been some – perhaps a quarter of the whole group – who’d chosen to run away rather than stay to face him in battle. That in itself was rather pleasing. He could still feel their fear. The whole area was permeated with it. He wondered if he ought to chase down and kill the survivors. But he liked the idea of letting them stew in their own terror for a while. Let them fear that he _might_ come after them and exterminate them all… and instead he would send some soldiers to deal with them. Pursuing and slaughtering terrified slaves held little appeal for him.

He’d killed the strongest ones. That was what mattered.

After packing the lightsabre into his bag, and then locating the Jedi’s datapad in the rebellion leader’s slightly scorched pocket, Zavahier made his way across the atrium and back into the passageway that would take him back to the Valley of the Dark Lords. After his frenzied activity in the atrium, the empty corridor seemed entirely too quiet – even dull.

But that was probably for the best, since he’d actually tired himself out.

Again.

Korriban’s heavy gravity, coupled with consistent, regular meals had done him a lot of good, and he’d started to gain weight and put on a little muscle, but it would take more than a couple of months for him to gain the kind of strength and endurance he wanted. Oh, he would never have the kind of raw physical power that Karroh possessed, and he was kind of resigned to always being smaller and weaker than other Sith. But it would be nice to not feel drained after dodging a few traps and fighting a small rebellion.

At least he felt good enough about his accomplishments to keep a spring in his step. Sometimes feeling tired could be a good thing, when it was the natural result of success and victory.

It wasn’t long before he reached the parts of the tomb that were being excavated by slaves. Ones that hadn’t decided to rebel, and were still obediently doing as they were told. Zavahier even spotted the one he’d shocked earlier. There was no denying that slaves made him a little uncomfortable. Maybe they always would. He looked away from them, and instead sought out the nearest sentry, asking him the name and location of his commanding officer. Looking a bit nervous that Zavahier might have a complaint about _him_ , the sentry nevertheless complied.

The commanding officer in question was located in one of the side chambers further along the corridor. He was issuing orders to a group of slaves, who were packing artefacts into crates. Zavahier considered waiting for the man to finish what he was doing… for all of a second. Then he remembered that he was Sith, and he wasn’t going to stand around waiting for anybody.

“Sergeant Dannrig?” Zavahier asked as he approached.

The officer looked a little irritated to be interrupted, but checked himself when he realised he was being addressed by a Sith. “Yes sir?” he asked with a bite of impatience.

“I’ve dealt with your renegade slave problem,” Zavahier told him, actually rather enjoying the opportunity to boast of his accomplishments.

“Really? All the other apprentices sent in to deal with them were killed,” Dannrig replied, some of his irritation fading when he realised his time was _not_ in fact being wasted.

“There were a few survivors. They ran away,” Zavahier said. He almost pointed out that he was only an acolyte, not an apprentice, but he didn’t need to brag _that_ much. The mere fact that he’d achieved something that had apparently gotten more than one Sith apprentice killed was pleasing enough.

“We’ll root out the rest of them, sir,” Sergeant Dannrig said. “As I understand it, the apprentices were sent by Inquisitor Jarobi. He’d probably like to know what happened to them.”

Zavahier took the hint; here was a chance for him to impress a higher ranking Sith with his strength and power. At the very least, it would improve his standing in the Academy, which would undermine Harkun’s insistence that he was worthless. And with every impressive feat Zavahier pulled off, every time he achieved the impossible, it put more distance between his old life and his new one. By killing rebel slaves, he proved to the Empire that he was no longer a slave himself. He was Sith.

There was a part of him that disliked having to prove his worth. He may not have been completely certain of the limits of his own power, but he _did_ know that he had yet to be given a challenge that he couldn’t face. He was capable of so much more than any of the other acolytes. He’d already proved himself.

Yet that was the life of a Sith, wasn’t it?

It didn’t really matter all that much that he had once been a slave. _Every_ Sith had to constantly prove his strength, lest he be destroyed by those who were more aggressive and powerful. It was a fact of life, and one that he had accepted shortly after he had become an acolyte; he may not have been told it in as many words, but he’d always known he had to prove himself or die. He’d known for a while that there was no room for weakness in his life, and a reluctance to show off his power could definitely qualify as such. If people – especially other Sith –didn’t _see_ his strength, they would assume he had none.

That didn’t stop it from being somewhat irritating, however. Sometimes Zavahier really doubted the freedom that was supposedly central to a Sith’s life actually existed. He had his freedom from slavery, yes, but he was locked into living up to the standards expected of Sith.

And were the Sith really free, if they were trapped within their own standards and traditions?

Shouldn’t _true_ freedom come from being without any limits at all?


	26. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running a few errands ought to keep Zavahier out of trouble, right?

After yet another visit to the medical bay to get his injuries taken care of, followed by a deep night’s sleep, Zavahier felt mostly recovered by the next morning, though still somewhat bruised… and drained. He’d expended a lot of energy during his slaughter of the rebelling slaves and the soldiers helping them, and while it was certainly impressive that he could bring that kind of power to bear with relative ease, he was definitely paying for it today. Karroh was constantly glancing in his direction, keeping an eye on him as he got dressed and ate breakfast, while Ffon remarked loudly on… something to do with irresponsible behaviour that was clearly aimed at Zavahier, though he had no idea what he’d done to earn those remarks.

Since when was killing traitors irresponsible?

Zavahier slipped out of the barracks as soon as he could, escaping both of them and heading towards the jails with the bag containing the Jedi’s belongings. Hopefully Quorian was still sufficiently confused that he wouldn’t question too many of the details. The murder of a large number of people might undermine Zavahier’s attempt to portray himself as a Sith with sympathy for a Jedi. Once again, he deactivated the lurking probe droid with a spark of lightning, and then approached the Jedi’s holding cell.

Quorian looked up as he approached, and then slowly got to his feet. “I know you. We talked before. My head’s clearer now, Sith,” he greeted.

“Good. Are you ready to get out of here?” Zavahier asked him. He cast a sly look around the jails, ensuring that there were no witnesses, before deactivating the energy field surrounding the Jedi. Then he held out the wrapped bundle. “Here are your belongings.”

Quorian took it and opened it, looking inside to ensure he had everything he needed. “It’s all here – the comlink, my lightsabre – everything I hid. You’re going through with it.”

“Of course I am. I promised, didn’t I?”

“With all this… once the guards change shifts, I think I can slip out of the Academy,” Quorian said, pocketing the comlink and datapad, and then clipping his lightsabre to his belt. “But what about you? Will you be okay?”

Zavahier nodded. “Me? I’ll be fine. Korriban is my home. I’m actually more worried about you,” he said.

This seemed to confuse the Jedi for a few moments, and he stared at Zavahier. “That’s… very kind of you, Sith. I still don’t understand why you’re doing this, but I thank you.” Quorian then stepped out of the holding cell, and made as if to slip out of the jails while the coast was clear. But then he paused and looked back at Zavahier. “I’m… I’m sorry the Empire took you in, instead of the Jedi. If things had been different, maybe you could’ve been part of the Order.”

“And how would I make the Empire a better place then?” Zavahier asked him, and without waiting for an answer, he added, “The sentries at the side entrance will change shifts in about twenty minutes. Be careful.”

“Thank you again, Sith,” Quorian said, bowing his head briefly, and then exiting the jails to begin his escape.

Zavahier allowed the Jedi a few minutes to get away from the jails, before he reactivated the probe droid and then left as well. But he didn’t follow Quorian’s route through the Academy; the Jedi’s fate was now in his own hands, and those of Sith Intelligence. Instead, Zavahier sought out Inquisitor Urinth to report the completion of the mission. It had, overall, been a rather interesting experience. His first encounter with a Jedi had introduced him to the thoroughly unnatural state of being that Jedi typically lived in, so now he would be on his guard in the future. It would, perhaps, be less unsettling to feel that eerie calm that radiated from Jedi in future.

“I’ve freed the Jedi,” he told Urinth when he found her.

“Yes, I am aware. You did well. Not perfectly – your emotions could have easily undermined your credibility – but I have confidence the operation will succeed,” Urinth said. “Our business is concluded. I will make note of your assistance in my report.”

“I don’t need your praise,” Zavahier replied, a little irritated with her criticism of his methods. Yes, the Jedi hadn’t really understood why Zavahier had helped him, but how was a Jedi _supposed_ to understand such things? If they actually had any understanding of normal human emotions, they wouldn’t be in such a rush to deny them.

“No. I imagine you don’t,” Urinth said in a clipped voice, before offering him a small package. “Take these tokens as payment for your service – and know that no Jedi can threaten Korriban. Now, go.”

It made him wonder, though: how did Sith infiltrate the Jedi without being caught?

Maybe _that_ was why Urinth criticised his emotions. To pass amongst the Jedi, a Sith would have to pretend to be like them. He would have to conceal or suppress his emotions, to present that unnatural calmness.

Should he have tried to do that with the Jedi?

Zavahier wandered away, and opened the package Urinth had given him; inside were a couple of credit chips and a small red crystal. There didn’t seem to be much power in the crystal, but he felt a little spark of Force energy within it. And it just looked nice, catching the light in an appealing way. For someone who had lived most of his life with nothing, even such a tiny bauble had value… not that the credit chips weren’t appreciated too. He already knew what he was going to spend them on, too: speeder piloting lessons. But the little crystal continued to drew his eye, and he was still admiring it when he was stopped by another Sith as he passed by the Academy’s central obelisk.

“So… yet another acolyte stands in the shadow of our Academy,” the Sith said. He was a tall, red-skinned Sith, and his red eyes scanned Zavahier with an air of faint curiosity. “You must consider yourself privileged. Tell me, you who would be Sith – have you seen much of our civilisation so far? Have you been awed by this world’s power and glory?”

Zavahier knew exactly how he was supposed to answer. Fortunately, it also happened to be the truth. What he couldn’t figure out, however, was _why_ this particular Sith had chosen to speak to him. Well, beyond the obvious; he was powerful, and apparently that was beginning to draw him some attention. The question was whether the attention was good or bad. “Indeed, I have. Korriban is most inspiring,” he said in answer to the question. If he actually gave the matter some thought, he realised that this cold, dusty planet felt more like home than Caekarro ever had. He felt like he _belonged_ on this world. He was a part of it, and it was becoming a part of him. On Caekarro, he had only ever been a possession, and it had never been his home. But what he did on Korriban? Those actions _mattered._

“You find it so?” the Sith Pureblood asked him. “Then you should understand something. Korriban was wrought by the true-blooded Sith millennia ago – our ancestors, a crimson race of conquerors, raised the statues around us. Over the aeons, however, our people mingled with slaves. Now, the red markings of the true Sith are rare – and the purity of this planet is in question.”

Zavahier bristled a little at this. It seemed to be nothing more than another complaint at the presence of former slaves in the Academy. “You’re ‘mingling’ with a former slave right now,” he said darkly.

“Is that so? This is a sad day… but you may yet be useful,” the Sith said. “True purity and strength are carried in the blood. I worry that our blood is being diluted over generations.”

“Only if you believe red skin makes you ‘pure’,” Zavahier pointed out. He knew little of his own heritage; his mother’s family had been slaves for so many generations that no knowledge of what they had been before that had survived. Perhaps they had always been slaves. His father’s family were from the Republic. Zavahier doubted there was any ‘true Sith’ blood in his veins; it seemed more likely that his Force-sensitivity was a fluke, a strange quirk of fate that had given him power no one else in his family had ever wielded. Yet he still knew himself to be powerful; even Karroh, a Pureblood himself, respected his strength.

“Red skin is only a mark. It is the strongest indicator of a mighty heritage, but not the only one,” the man conceded. “I am Lord Abaron, and in the Emperor’s name, I’ve come to learn whether the Academy’s Overseers are Sith – or not.”

“Who are you to judge whether Sith are pure or inferior?” Zavahier asked him.

“As an agent of the Emperor and the Dark Council. I will report to them, and if necessary, seek ways to restore hereditary supremacy,” Abaron said. “I possess an ancient device – a holocron – that can read and record bloodlines. It will pulse with life near the Overseers. Allow the holocron to fulfil its purpose – stand near the Overseers as it attunes to their blood purity. Then return here, and I will learn the truth.”

Zavahier thought about refusing the errand. He didn’t really care about the heritage of the Overseers, since he didn’t believe that Sith Purebloods were inherently his betters due to their species alone. Or for any other reason, for that matter. He knew the Empire considered aliens inferior to humans and Sith Purebloods, but he was also very conscious of having been raised by a Twi’lek, and he’d spent most of his life around many other non-human slaves. And he hadn’t been better than any of them.

The only thing that had set him apart, in the end, was his connection to the Force. It had made him stronger, more able to endure things that would have killed anyone else… and it had made him harder to dominate. He’d been able to resist and disobey Rawste when none of the others had. But that hadn’t made him better than the other slaves. It was the Force that had given him his unbreakable, indomitable will. And by all accounts, the Force made few distinctions based on species. Some species had different rates of Force-sensitivity, that was all. There was simply more to who a person was than that, and since Zavahier _definitely_ didn’t accept that Sith Purebloods were superior to _him_ , then logically, was a human any better than any other race?

So what did he care whether the Overseers were human or Sith?

And then he realised that Harkun was one of the Overseers that he would need to scan. Harkun did have the red facial markings of a man with Sith heritage, but if his bloodline nevertheless proved to be weak, that would be rather satisfying. It certainly wouldn’t stop Harkun from looking down on him, but Zavahier no longer cared about impressing him. Just proving that Harkun wasn’t any better than the former slaves he was required to teach would be more than enough.

“Alright, I suppose I have some time,” Zavahier said, taking the holocron from the Sith. It seemed he was going to spend this entire day running errands, but perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. It was possible that the escape of the Jedi might be tied back to him, so it certainly wouldn’t do him any harm to make himself useful today, if only to prove that he was a loyal servant of the Empire. Just the thought of the words ‘loyal servant’ revolted him, but making a show of loyalty didn’t mean the Empire actually _owned_ him.

He already knew who the first target of the holocron would be. Not Harkun, but someone with whom he had other business to conduct; Zavahier made his way to the Academy’s archives and located Inquisitor Jarobi. The holocron rested in his pocket, and he activated it with a little spark of Force energy, before moving closer to the other Sith. He felt the holocron pulse with life, just as Abaron said it would. At the same moment, he sensed a flash of recognition in his target.

“Ah. Approach,” Jarobi said, beckoning him forward. “I’ve heard rumours of your exploits in the tombs. You follow in the path of failed apprentices… ones sent to slay renegades and crack the shells of droids. You fared better.”

“It was fun,” Zavahier said. He knew he ought to brag, to take some pride in his achievement, since he’d proven stronger than the apprentices sent into the tomb. But his actions spoke for themselves, didn’t they? He didn’t need to be crass and boastful about it, not the way Ffon would have done.

“No doubt it was satisfying,” Jarobi said. “And you have done the Academy a service. The renegade slaves were not merely a threat to the security of the Empire, but they would have damaged the tombs of the ancients. That would have been unforgivable. And for succeeding where the others failed, you will be rewarded.”

The Sith gave Zavahier a small box, a little smaller than the one he’d received from Urinth. But inside it was another credit chip, and another small crystal. This one was also red, but of a slightly pinkish shade, and it too had a small but recognisable connection to the Force.

If people were going to keep giving him crystals, he would have to find some use for them beyond simply admiring them. A project for the future.

Zavahier stepped away from Jarobi, and once he was out of sight, he checked the holocron in his pocket to confirm that it had taken the recording of Jarobi’s bloodline. He couldn’t make much sense of the results, but at least the data was there. It would be up to Abaron to decide what it meant.

One Overseer down, twelve to go.

Zavahier began stalking through the Academy, intent on tracking down and scanning every last Overseer with the holocron he had been provided with. It proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated; he needed to find an excuse to get close enough to each of the Overseers without raising suspicion, and that took a little creativity on his part. Overseers Sathel and Ardran were engaged in conversation just outside the jails, and all Zavahier needed to do was amble past them, pretending to read his datapad to justify his slow pace while the holocron did its job. He approached Samus with a question about the destructive capabilities of telekinesis, and the ensuing discussion was more than long enough for Samus’ bloodlines to be recorded. A similar tactic worked on Rance, too, when Zavahier asked for an _honest_ appraisal of his combat skills rather than the highly biased ones Harkun was prone to giving him. Prithor, too, was easily recorded by the holocron while Zavahier went into the stables to spend a few minutes playing with Shâsot, playing a brief game of tug-of-war with a knotted piece of old robes.

Harkun was a bit more of a challenge, because approaching him without good reason was likely to result in receiving a painful shock, as well as a thorough telling-off for whatever Harkun found most offensive about him today. So Zavahier made his way towards Harkun’s office without much of a plan at all, only to stop when he heard the sound of raised voices from within.

“Useless, careless, irresponsible… One simple errand cannot possibly be so far beyond even that filth’s abilities…“ Harkun complained loudly.

While it wasn’t immediately obvious that Harkun was talking about him, the words used seemed to echo Ffon’s too closely to have been about anybody else.

But really, what _had_ he done this time?

There had been no trials for him to fail. And even though Rance didn’t have anything particularly positive to say about Zavahier’s fighting ability, Samus was sufficiently impressed with his aptitude with the Force that Zavahier could at least claim not to be utterly useless.

A slave hurried out of Harkun’s office, carrying a bundle of robes for cleaning. Struck with an idea, Zavahier followed him through the Academy’s corridors, and into a place he’d always avoided as much as possible. A whole collection of rooms served as the Academy’s kitchens, as well as a place for clothes to be washed, equipment repaired, and the building itself maintained. It was inhabited mostly by slaves, and although Zavahier had explored the whole area… just being around the slaves was uncomfortable. He didn’t go into that part of the Academy often. He much preferred the archives.

“Hey, you,” Zavahier said, approaching the slave with Harkun’s robes. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, sir?” the slave said quietly, keeping his gaze low and avoiding looking into Zavahier’s eyes.

“It’s simple. When you take those robes back to Overseer Harkun, you just need to carry this holocron in your pocket,” Zavahier said, holding out the holocron.

“Um… I don’t know if I should, sir,” the slave said, looking very uncertain about the idea.

Zavahier hesitated for a moment, caught in indecision himself… before deciding that he really just had to assert his authority and be done with it. “You don’t need to touch it, or do anything with it. Just have it in your possession when you return to Harkun. And then give it back to me afterwards,” he ordered, speaking firmly enough to make it clear that refusal wasn’t an option. “Oh, and say nothing of it to Harkun.”

“I won’t get in trouble?” the slave asked. “I’m not supposed to get involved in Sith plotting.”

Those words echoed Zavahier’s own, when Urinth had asked him to help with the Jedi. Another reminder of just how much like a slave he still was.

“No, you won’t. This isn’t plotting. It’s just… a small errand. Just do as you’re told, and it will be fine,” Zavahier insisted.

Although he didn’t look entirely convinced that Zavahier wasn’t plotting _something_ , the slave still lacked any option to refuse. So he took the holocron – which Zavahier activated before handing it over – and went back to Harkun’s office with the fresh set of robes. Zavahier followed a little way behind, and lurked just around the corner as the slave went in.

If the slave told Harkun…

But he didn’t. He returned a few seconds later, having dropped off Harkun’s robes, and gratefully returned the holocron to Zavahier, wanting nothing more than to be rid of it and not involved in any more ‘Sith plotting’.

Zavahier studied the holocron, confirming that it had indeed recorded Harkun’s bloodline.

And then he set his mind to how he would get the holocron close enough to the other Overseers. They would be a little more challenging, as Zavahier had little reason to even be near them, let alone talk to them long enough for the holocron to scan them. Most of them he had never before interacted with, only knowing them by name and sight. The first of these was Lord Cestus, who Zavahier found pacing up and down in front of a group of acolytes in one of the teaching rooms, instructing them in how to channel the Force.

Zavahier entered the room and lurked near the back, leaning against the wall and watching the lesson. There wasn’t, strictly speaking, any rules forbidding him from observing the lessons of other groups of acolytes, as long as he didn’t interfere with their studies. Acolytes were generally encouraged to teach themselves as much – if not more – than the instructors taught them. But Cestus nevertheless gave him a pointed look when Zavahier’s entrance caused a momentary distraction amongst the acolytes, disapproving of the interruption. But then the Overseer reconsidered, his expression changing from irritation to a thin smile.

“Acolytes, this is Ezerdus,” Cestus said, apparently deciding to take advantage of Zavahier’s growing reputation. “Two months ago, he was a slave. Now he’s one of the most powerful acolytes on Korriban, proof of the power of ambition, determination and passion. He could crush you all with very little effort.”

The final comment was a little barbed, but a palpable ripple of fear passed through the acolytes, and Zavahier recognised some familiar signs amongst them; at least half the group were former slaves. They were the ones most intimidated by him. A pair of acolytes of higher birth, one human and the other Sith Pureblood, looked less impressed.

“I have heard from Samus that you are particularly talented with Force lightning. A demonstration, if you would?” Cestus asked.

This was an unusual request, but not unheard of. Zavahier’s own lessons with Samus and Rance had sometimes been observed by other acolytes, and on one occasion, Rance had asked one acolyte to demonstrate her skills with her warblade. She’d shown them a fighting form that was quite different to anything Rance had taught them, and it had been quite interesting. But more than that, it had spurred a sense of increased competitiveness amongst the group, pushing them to fight harder and try to outdo each other… and outperform the acolyte who’d provided the demonstration as well.

Zavahier and Ffon had both wanted to impress Rance as much as this other acolyte had. Ffon had won, of course. Melee combat came more naturally to him than it did to Zavahier. But the demonstration had nevertheless given Zavahier some ideas of his own, and his skills had improved as a result.

So to be asked to provide a demonstration of his own was quite gratifying. It meant he had earned at least a little respect.

“I’d be happy to oblige,” Zavahier said, stepping away from the wall and joining Cestus at the front of the room. This wasn’t just a chance to show off his strength in the Force and intimidate some acolytes with his power; it allowed him to get close enough to Cestus to activate the holocron in his pocket as well.

“Show these acolytes your speciality. The training dummy, please. Try to leave the rest of the room intact and everybody alive,” Cestus said.

“Take away my fun, why don’t you?” Zavahier grumbled, but it wasn’t a genuine complaint. Rather, it was a subtle boast, pretending to be annoyed that he needed to hold himself back. Yet he felt a flicker of nervousness at being asked to show off in front of a whole crowd of acolytes, knowing they would be judging everything he did. Best to make it as impressive a display of power as possible, then. So while the holocron he carried gathered information on Cestus, Zavahier began building a charge of lightning. It gathered in his hands, wreathing around his wrists, and he put a little effort into making it glow more brightly than usual. He was still proud of his unusually purple lightning, and he was determined to show it off. Lightning was, as Cestus said, his speciality. It came so easily to him, easier than any of the other Force powers he’d learned; everything else required practice, but his lightning was instinctual. He could still call on it even when he felt as drained as he did today.

Once he’d summoned what felt like a suitably impressive ball of lightning, he directed it towards the training dummy that stood next to the wall, which he pretended was Ffon, just to ensure the blast was as violent as possible. The whole room flashed with purple light as the tendrils of lightning jumped and sparked over the training dummy. It was accompanied by a loud _crack_ of thunder.

The reactions were rather mixed. A couple of the acolytes shied away, looking frightened. They were the ones who were unlikely to survive their training, so Zavahier had little reason to care what they thought outside of that moment of pleasure their obvious fear brought him. Of more interest were the pair of high-born acolytes, who regarded him with a kind of grudging respect.

“Of course, I’ll be able to do that in a few weeks, just you watch,” the human said in a low voice to the Sith Pureblood, who responded with a nod of agreement. Anything a former slave could do, they were determined to do better.

Zavahier doubted they would achieve it. The only acolyte in this place even _close_ to his strength was Karroh… and he considered himself more powerful than Karroh, too. His friend had the advantage of a more thorough education and greater physical strength, but in terms of raw, untapped power, Zavahier knew no Sith in the galaxy could match him. Well, except perhaps the Emperor himself, but even that was something he conceded only reluctantly. And that was temporary at best. He would find a way of becoming more powerful than the Emperor too, one day.

And it all proved that blood wasn’t the only indication of strength and worthiness.

He left the teaching room with Cestus’ thanks… and his bloodlines recorded in the holocron. Five Overseers remained, and Zavahier had yet to think of a strategy to get himself close enough to them without drawing attention. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to ask him what he was doing. But in the absence of any solid ideas, he opted for improvisation; he would locate them one by one, and see what opportunities presented themselves.

Overseer Markan was at the entrance of the Academy, irritably lecturing a group of sentries on some infraction or other. Zavahier recognised him as the Sith who’d mocked him on his first day of the Academy. And Markan was more than distracted enough for Zavahier to wander closer and activate the holocron. It was only when Markan had finished reprimanding the sentries that he turned and gave Zavahier a withering look. “What do you want, slave?”

“Just taking in the sights. Observing your methods of intimidating terrified guards,” Zavahier commented, before darting sideways to avoid the spark of lightning Markan sent his direction.

“Get back to whatever you’re supposed to be doing,” Markan told him.

Zavahier didn’t need telling twice. He’d gotten what he’d come for anyway. The next few Overseers were similarly easy to record; it turned out that a mixture of curiosity and loyalty was sufficient excuse for him to get close enough for the holocron to do its work. Inquisitor Arzanon was examining the latest group of acolytes that had come to Korriban, and Zavahier simply offered himself as a means of destroying any further traitors, if it should be needed, getting himself close to Arzanon in the process.

Lord Solence was located some distance away from the Academy at one of the transport shuttle landing pads, and he was supervising a number of slaves as they unloaded crates of supplies from a shuttle. Zavahier kept his distance, playing it coy instead of deliberately approaching Solence. He watched the slaves from a place near the wall, his instincts telling him that sooner or later, Solence would come to him.

It was a good ten minutes before this happened. In a natural pause between one pallet of crates and another, the slaves were allowed a brief moment of rest, and Solence ambled over to Zavahier. “Are you here for a reason, acolyte?” he asked.

Zavahier touched his finger to the holocron in his pocket, silently activating it, before answering the Overseer’s question. “I was wondering something. Why bring the supplies here, instead of closer to the Academy?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“It wouldn’t be, if the intention were to store everything in the Academy itself,” Solence replied. “There’s a series of underground storage bays where everything is stored until it’s needed.”

Zavahier nodded, accepting this explanation. He was only here to make conversation long enough for the holocron to scan Solence. But the existence of the subterranean storage areas was interesting enough, and might prove useful one day; he rather liked the idea of luring Ffon there, and then ambushing and killing him. Many acolytes feared being attacked in the tombs, but would not expect to be murdered behind some crates of rations. “Where are these storage bays, exactly?” he asked.

Solence gave him a smile and a rather knowing look. “Go through there, and down the elevator,” he said, pointing towards a break in the metal walls surrounding the transport pad. “Don’t get caught. And if you do, I never told you anything.”

“I understand,” Zavahier said, returning the man’s smile, before walking in the direction indicated. After all, he could hardly leave without investigating the site of Ffon’s future demise, could he? Not without drawing attention to his _real_ reason for being here. There was something to be said for having multiple schemes on the go at once: it certainly left other Sith in the dark about his true intentions. If the Overseers thought he was plotting to kill his rival, then they wouldn’t know about Abaron’s holocron.

And Abaron didn’t need to know that Zavahier was using this mission as an opportunity to intimidate and impress fellow acolytes, and to find a means of dealing with Ffon once and for all. If only he could have found a way of using it to irritate Harkun, too. But apparently he’d done that already, without even trying to. He still wished he’d known exactly _what_ he’d done - other than simply exist - so that he could do it again in the future.

He was getting rather good at this lifestyle, wasn’t he?

The elevator Solence had directed him to took him down the side of the cliff, deeper into the lower portion Valley of the Dark Lords, and then it halted by a broad ledge that was inaccessible by foot from either above or below. Zavahier stepped off the elevator platform and moved along the ledge; it went around a small outcropping of rock, which concealed an entrance into the dark tunnels before. Both the entrance and the tunnels were more than wide enough for pallets of crates to be brought in… though Zavahier did have to wonder how many slaves fell off the ledge every year.

It was probably a lot. But apparently slaves were disposable.

He spent some time exploring the storage bays. They weren’t terribly exciting; these tunnels had, at some point, been a tomb for an ancient Sith, but clearly not a sufficiently important one for his tomb to have been preserved. All the statues were nothing but piles of rubble and dust, and all the writings on the walls had been worn away to the point that they were illegible. There was, Zavahier thought, a rather sad aura to the place, tinged with righteous but thoroughly impotent anger.

It made the stacked crates of food and equipment seem a little out of place. It was a very practical use of a tomb that had once been far grander. But Sith tombs weren’t meant to be pragmatic. They were supposed to be displays of power and wealth, and a means of preserving the interred Sith’s name for all eternity. If the spirit of that Sith still lingered, it would explain the emotions present in these broad corridors… much like all the other tombs Zavahier had visited.

But it was still a good place to destroy Ffon. There would be no witnesses. It was perfect. Now he just needed to find the right time to put his plan into motion… and a way of luring Ffon down here.

Satisfied, Zavahier left the tomb, followed the ledge back around the cliff, and took the elevator back up to the transport pad. Solence had gone back to supervising the slaves’ work, and though he glanced in Zavahier’s direction, he didn’t acknowledge him in any other way. He clearly wanted nothing to do with Zavahier’s schemes, and so chose to turn a blind eye to his movements.

There were now only two Overseers left on Zavahier’s list, and after performing a quick sweep of the upper areas of the Valley of the Dark Lords, he concluded they were either in the Academy – and that he had simply missed them earlier – or they were in a more remote location. He wasn’t going to trawl through every tomb in search of the last two Overseers, not without having a clearer idea of exactly where they were, so instead he returned to the Academy. He thought it more likely that Overseers Loun and Ragate would be there anyway; the whole point of their jobs was to supervise, rather than complete menial tasks themselves.

Loun was quickly located in the cantina, sitting at a small table with Markan. Zavahier took a seat at the bar, as close to Loun and Markan as he could get without intruding on their privacy or being hit with Markan’s lightning. He ordered himself a drink and a snack, and consumed both while the holocron in his pocket recorded Loun’s ancestry.

Just one left now.


End file.
